


Swan Song

by EvilConcubine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst, Cover Art, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Hurt Sherlock, Illustrations, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Overdosing, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Sherlock Doesn't Deal Well With Emotions, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock in Love, Suicidal Thoughts, Swan Lake - Freeform, Swans, Unless You See the Abominable Bride As An AU, and, are included, not exactly an au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:24:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilConcubine/pseuds/EvilConcubine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~<br/>In the past, people believed that a swan in its final moments of life sings the most beautiful of all birdsongs.<br/>Sherlock goes too far and too deep this time. There might be no way to return and John is the only hope.</p><p>(The story is based on Swan Lake. Post-TAB. Please, read the tags for more information)<br/>~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Different Kind Of Journey

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story for this fandom that I decided to post under my pen name, rather than anonymously.
> 
> Please, keep in mind that English is not my native language. Unlike John and Sherlock, betas and I are not meant to be. I hope you're going to enjoy reading the story, regardless. 
> 
> Please, read the tags, because I couldn't come up with a summary that would give people a better idea of what the whole thing is going to be about. You don't have to know much about the ballet to read this story.

 

 

 

     They insisted on showing him the latest sonogram of their unborn daughter. He had expected to find it interesting, to a certain degree, at least from a scientific point of view, but he didn’t. The image of a curled up foetus had made everything he secretly dreaded more inevitable and there was a feeling of finality about it, too. John was about to become less available, busier. Sherlock couldn’t not love the girl, as she was partially John; his DNA, his ‘flesh and blood’. He remembered reading that people were genetically more similar to their fathers, rather than mothers, something about using more DNA from their fathers. He must have deleted the details as irrelevant, so he had to find more information about it, as well as some sort of confirmation in reliable sources, if such a confirmation existed (why did it even matter so much?). Looking at the sonogram, all Sherlock could see was that John wasn’t going back to living in 221B.

 

     He’d given Mary every excuse his deductive skills could provide. He hadn’t been lying, he’d just been voicing the truths selectively. He intentionally shut his eyes to certain things, such as some of Mary’s remarks that were, not quite openly, cruel and insensitive, whilst looking like innocent jokes to laugh off and dismiss. He couldn’t tell if her occasional passive-aggressive behaviour was deliberate or natural, and thus, wasn’t supposed to be taken personally, but rather had to be treated as her individual peculiarity instead. Some people would’ve seen those things as so-called red flags, but that just didn’t matter. Sherlock was hardly the nicest, most thoughtful person either; he could be cruel and brutally sarcastic, deliberately or otherwise, so he couldn’t blame her for the attitude she displayed now and then. She was capable of rousing interest in someone attracted to danger, but did not pose a threat to John, personally. And she was making John happy most of the time. John deserved to be happy. The complete absence of romantic relationships and interest in creating a family were in Sherlock’s nature, not John’s. If the doctor was no longer capable of fully trusting Mary (the main reason was her shooting Sherlock, rather than her past), it didn’t mean he didn’t want a family and a daughter, who was soon to be born.

     He loved his girl. Just one glance at that sonogram before passing it to Sherlock had told the detective all he needed to know, not that he’d had any doubts before. In fact, the knowledge was the reason Sherlock had been so determined to convince John to come back to his wife, instead of letting his own jealousy and selfishness rule him. John deserved better.

     Every now and then, some traitorous parts of Sherlock's mind wondered if he was a bit hesitant to love John’s daughter, because she was also Mary’s, but he wasn’t allowed to think that; he had absolutely no right to think that. It was safer, and quite reasonable, to blame the fact that he, generally, was not fond of children and never had been, including the time he’d been a child himself.

 

     And now Mary felt like spending two weeks in Lancashire, where John had rented one of the St Anne’s cosy beach huts for the two of them on her request. Sherlock knew John wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the idea, but he couldn’t let Mary go alone now that she was so close to her due date. Mary believed they should have a nice time away before their child arrived, as it was inevitably going to bring more responsibilities and less free time to relax together in the near future. They wouldn’t be able to make at least some arrangements as a couple for a while, becoming a family with a child instead, with their plans or details of those plans changing accordingly. Sherlock would not be surprised if Mary gave birth shortly after their return or even sometime in the end of their trip. That fact hadn’t stopped the trip from happening, though.

     As soon as John left with Mary, Sherlock’s depression came down on him like a ton of bricks, surprising him with its intensity. John was going to be a good, responsible and caring father. It meant that at least eight years promised to be more johnless than Sherlock had previously been ready to acknowledge, despite the sheer obviousness of it. The sonogram had finally brought the realisation he could no longer ignore. He wasn’t even sure he was going to see John at least once more before his only friend became a father, and the thought nearly made him hysterical inside. It was as if John, as a father, would become an entirely different person (what if he actually would?), and Sherlock hadn’t had a chance to say good-bye to the person he knew as John.

 

     Sherlock was shaky and nauseous. The familiar craving was fuelling his anxiety, and it was becoming increasingly overwhelming. He tried to busy himself with an experiment and some cold cases Lestrade had provided him with, but it was nearly impossible to concentrate. John rang him to enquire how he was, and Sherlock lied with practised ease. He was fine, he was conducting an experiment, he was thinking about a case. No, it wasn’t very interesting, but it would do for now. His former flatmate, in turn, told him that they hadn’t yet arrived, which he certainly knew Sherlock had already deduced anyway, and promised to ring again in the morning. Once John rang off, Sherlock felt empty.

     By the midnight, he felt knackered and went to bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. His feet were restless without him really noticing, his body tense.

     The relative silence of an early morning was torn apart by the desperate scream of a violin.

 

     He was disgusted with himself. He’d promised John to stop taking drugs. Again. ‘This time for real’, of course. John had stayed with him, getting him clean after the incident on the plane. He had been supportive, both as a friend and as a doctor, even though Sherlock could easily deduce his anger. The anger had been under control, for Sherlock’s sake. The withdrawal itself had been severe (but when hadn’t it been?). Sherlock had done his utmost to seem stoic, even though he hadn’t felt that way in the slightest. He hadn’t wanted John to see how hard it had really been on him. Eventually, he had proclaimed himself clean. The doctor had tested him a few times, and the tests had been negative, confirming that Sherlock had not been secretly using behind the doctor’s back again. Desperate, John had made him promise, and Sherlock had thought he could keep his promise for him, because he wasn’t even sure he had any desire to do it for himself, which was something he’d, naturally, left unsaid. Even if he saw no point in staying clean, he had been staying in control surprisingly well.

     Until the sonogram.

 

     No matter how clean he was, it didn’t make him any less of an addict. He could at least look the facts in the face and admit it to himself, in spite of never admitting it to anybody else. John had been taken from him. John was going to become increasingly more distant after the child’s birth. And what if they decided to make another one? What kind of life was that with no John and no Work? At least the Work the way it used to be before Sherlock’s two years away. It went without saying that him shooting Magnussen had made the Work next to impossible now, except for Moriarty's legacy in the form of a person or an organisation that wasn't in a hurry to make its move to give Sherlock something, anything to work with. Nothing would ever be the same again and nostalgia was a pointless indulgence. There was nothing to quieten his mind down either. He was left with nothing.

     The truth was, he hadn’t had long after being sent to Eastern Europe. He’d seen no point in postponing the inevitable, so he’d planned to commit suicide and to be dead before the plane landed ( _‘As if it wasn’t a suicide mission literally enough already’_ , he snorted bitterly to himself), but things had changed drastically and he’d lived to see John’s face again, not just Watson's from his Mind Palace, but the real one's; worried, caring. How could it be such a blessing and a curse at the same time? He’d thought he’d left John with his growing family, where Sherlock had no place anyway, and the army doctor wouldn’t have had to tear himself between them and his needy friend, who was as pathetic as to exaggerate the value and danger of a case, just to make John spend time with him.

     And, of course, there had been the relief of finally letting familiar substances into his greedily pulsing veins, one last time before everything was over, once and for all. His two years away had been an ordeal, and he’d known he would’ve never been able to do it again, so it was best to choose the familiar way of letting his own life go, on his own terms. But he hadn’t seen it though, due to the unexpected interruption. He’d survived, solved his inner mystery, just to solve the real one after the message of Moriarty’s return had been broadcasted. Thankfully, Sherlock hadn’t gone too far yet, in any sense, so he’d been able to both see that message and comprehend that it had **not** been a product of his drugged mind. Because of that, he hadn’t allowed himself to go deep enough to be unable to return, which he’d originally planned. For a short while (much longer in his Mind Palace), he’d had a purpose again. And he’d had John. But Moriarty was dead, unlike his ideas, evidently, and John had his real life with his real, everyday responsibilities.

     There were times Sherlock was angry that his suicide had been interrupted. It had been a good, short adventure with his friend, true, but, afterwards, there had been nothing, yet again. He used to deceive himself by thinking that John, the adrenaline junkie, depended on him because of what Sherlock could offer him, and John would never leave due to that fact. But, in reality, it was **he** who depended on John; he, who liked to brag about how self-sufficient he was.

 

     He felt as if there was nothing at all left in his life. He knew it was childish and overly dramatic to think that way, and, perhaps, it was his addiction talking, but he was tired of caring about it. Caring was not an advantage; Mycroft knew exactly what he was talking about, and Sherlock knew how much trouble caring had brought to Mycroft himself, probably much more than any good he’d ever seen from Sherlock, shouldering the burden of a junkie brother alone, without involving their parents. He was good at hiding his addiction; Mycroft was right about that as well. John would be too busy to find out. And, if he happened to visit for a moment or two, abandoning his family life for a short while, Sherlock would find a way to tamper with his urine tests. Quite possibly, there would no longer be any other reason for John to visit his bothersome friend. Wasn’t Sherlock dragging him down?

 

     His old stash was rather impressive, full of various drugs and safely hidden under one of the footsteps (the twelfth, to be precise) that led up to John and his.., no, just his now, flat. After what had happened on the plane, everything he’d had left on him had been confiscated. Next, before allowing him back, Mycroft’s men had searched the flat as thoroughly as was humanely possible. Sherlock’s wardrobe, for example, had been taken apart completely and put back together, as he had easily deduced upon coming back to the seemingly untouched place. His bed and many other items in the flat had gone through the same treatment. They must have found many questionable things in the process. And they **had** found the narcotics: a small paper packet of cocaine under the sink in the kitchen, stuck to the bottom of the sink with several pieces of cello tape of nearly the same colour as the sink itself. It would’ve been way too suspicious if they hadn’t found anything at all. When the second meticulous search by another team hadn’t revealed anything, Sherlock had finally been allowed to move back into his flat. Mycroft had been suspicious even then, but he hadn’t said anything, while Sherlock pretended he had in no way been affected by his brother’s disappointment.

     On the coffee table, his shaking hands opened the transparent cellophane bag that contained another bag, made of crinkly paper. Inside, there were smaller packets and glass bottles, mostly full of different powders and pills, but there were also ampoules, meant for medicinal use, in cardboard boxes, such as diamorphine hydrochloride and other official pharmaceutical products that were only available on prescription (not in this particular case, of course). Some of them had very slightly exceeded their shelf life, but Sherlock knew they were still perfectly usable.

     When Sherlock had met John, he hadn’t been taking drugs for sixty-eight days, and, back then, he’d doubted he was going to remain abstinent for much longer. And yet, from the moment Sherlock had met his flatmate, friend and partner, up to sometime after the Fall, Sherlock hadn’t been using, except for those two cases when he’d been drugged against his will by the taxi driver and The Woman. The cravings, if there at all, had been weak, and Sherlock could easily ignore them.

     He’d stared using again during his time away. Sometimes he’d been in need of stimulants to keep going, sometimes, but not very often, he’d required painkillers, if things had gone seriously wrong. When he’d started his mission, he’d preferred to see it as an adventure; the Work had always been his motivator, kept him interested and excited. But that wasn’t the same. It had been at first, or at least it had appeared so, but it hadn’t lasted.

     Some days had been unbearable; he’d been so far away from home, from his life, and he could feel it so acutely that no mystery had been able to distract him. He’d hated every place he’d had to stay in, the views behind the windows had always been wrong, everything had been wrong. It had been even worse when his mission had involved waiting and lying low. Returning home ever again had started to seem less and less probable. He’d never thought it would take him so long. There had never been any guarantee that he survived, but he’d silently promised John to come back, even though the doctor couldn’t have known it. And yet, it had started to seem that he would never come back, that he would either die, or the mission would never be completed, since more and more threads had kept revealing themselves in the process and appeared to be endless.

     It had not been a pleasant adventure, no. It hadn’t taken long for the drugs to become a part of his life again. Later, he’d even managed to fool Mycroft after all that time he had not been using. During his captivity in Serbia, the drugs had had enough time to leave his system before Mycroft had come to rescue him, so his medics hadn’t found anything drug-related, and there had been more important health issues to pay attention to, including kidney and middle-ear infections.

     This particular stash hadn’t been touched since before John had moved in (it felt like a lifetime ago). Sherlock hadn’t even thought about it for a long time, but he’d hidden it back then, just in case he needed some of it for an experiment or a case… or in case his craving had become too much to ignore. But, up until now, there had been no need to retrieve it.

     The stash contained a glass and metal syringe that could be sterilised (potentially dangerous for more than one individual, but acceptable for personal use of one person) and several sterile needles that could also be sterilised repeatedly. He had no disposable plastic syringes at home, which would’ve been a safest option, of course; however, if he went anywhere near a pharmacy, Mycroft would know. Leaving the flat at all would get him in trouble, since he wasn’t allowed to go out while there were no special circumstances or an explicit permission.

     When the drug (heroin) had finally been cooked up and administered, Sherlock was shaking in both anguish and relief.

‘I’m sorry, John…’, he murmured, loosening the rubber tourniquet and letting the drug do its job. The pleasant feeling of drowsiness filled his entire being. Finally. There was a small piece of paper next to him. _‘Diamorphine – 42 mg’_ , was written on it, and the date.

 

     He was shooting up on a regular basis now. It was amazing how quickly, nearly from the very beginning, he’d established his old pattern of drug use and his usual doses that were both enough and not over the top for him. There weren’t any real surprises in that regard. He used different drugs, but, as always, cocaine was more preferable. The problem was that his body no longer reacted well to it, as he’d learned during his two year long mission, it never really had, which wasn’t unusual for many people, but it had become worse. His heart rate, body temperature and blood pressure were becoming so high that he was starting to shake, miserable and confused; headaches contributed to it as well. Sometimes he started panicking, too. Comedowns were more unpleasant than ever. Mixing cocaine with opioids produced a good combination that allowed him to avoid some side effects of the stimulant.

     Heroin was his second choice. Luckily enough, he had enough of citric acid powder in the kitchen to dissolve it properly. Requesting it from a man who did the shopping for him (one of Mycroft’s lackeys, who appeared once in a few days specifically for that purpose) would’ve made everything obvious, especially to Mycroft, who, no doubt, monitored everything.

     Most other drugs, such as oxycodone, just didn’t feel exactly right, but he still used them in combinations with his more preferable ones.

     He started running out of cocaine soon enough, but he still had enough of heroin, both legally and illegally produced. They were so different, – cocaine and heroin, but he craved both. It was all so easy, so familiar. He felt in control, he felt relaxed, happier. His days were running smoothly, he was his own person, and it was he and he alone who decided what he needed, what he could and couldn’t do. It was such a relief to be on drugs all the time now. As long as he had gear, things would be fine, but once he ran out of it, he would have to think of a way to obtain more. No, he wasn’t going to worry about it just yet.

 

     Lestrade visited once and brought him some more files with cases the consulting detective could help with. Sherlock easily deduced that it was John who had rung the DI and asked him to visit Sherlock and check if he was okay, even though John himself rang him every day.

     It wasn’t hard to fool Lestrade. It was even easier to fool Mrs Hudson and Mycroft’s lackey during his brief visits. Oh, yes, he knew how to hide his addiction, indeed. He wouldn’t have been able to fool Mycroft now, though, but the busybody was away in another country (Sherlock must have deleted which) with a diplomatic visit, which was a rare case for him, but it was definitely playing into his little brother’s hands. If he demonstrated any suspicious activity, Mycroft’s underlings would undoubtedly notify him, but Sherlock knew how to be careful.

 

     His Mind Palace Watson, his beloved Victorian era companion, was there for him more often than not, always choosing him over his wife, once the drugs kicked in enough for that world to become Sherlock’s reality. And, if John wasn’t there, it was enough for Sherlock to send someone with a message, for him to arrive within a couple of hours or even sooner than that. At first, Sherlock was moderately content, sometimes even happy and elated, but then, a couple of times, he suddenly broke down and started crying in front of Watson. How embarrassing… It must have had something to do with his choice of drugs in the real world. He wasn’t sure what exactly it was. Watson was worried; he took Sherlock’s hands in his, looked him in the eye and started asking what was wrong. The detective never answered: he tried, he opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and John just stayed there with him. His close proximity and warmth meant the world to Sherlock. It was so cold without his friend, and he wasn’t sure where it was coming from.

     Becoming increasingly concerned, Watson was always there for him, believing that his friend was ailing. He barely ever went home to his wife now. When Sherlock started shivering, Watson often covered his lap and feet with a warm chequered afghan, put more wood into the fireplace and asked Mrs Hudson to bring some hot tea or prepared it himself, if she wasn’t available. The good doctor checked his pupils and pulse, touched his forehead to make sure he was, indeed, just cold and not running a fever. The contact always made Sherlock feel a little better and definitely warmer. John kept asking what was wrong and whether it had something to do with his ‘other’ life, because Watson just knew it did, but Sherlock didn’t know how to answer. What was wrong? Everything was. How could he even begin explaining?

     In the end, he just asked his friend to stay with him, for as long as he could, and nearly had panic attacks almost every time Watson as much as left the flat for a short while. They didn’t even have cases and Sherlock couldn’t care less, as long as John was there, even though it was just his Mind Palace copy of John. The copy was brilliant. Of course, it had been created as a requirement for a case, but it had started living its own life, making Sherlock want to visit this John Watson over and over again.

     It was so much easier than the things with the real life John.

     The desire to spend more time with this Mind Palace friend was making Sherlock almost unconsciously increase his doses of drugs. John (the real one) kept calling every day, and it was taking more and more from Sherlock to act as if nothing was the matter, while, on the inside, he was begging: _‘Please, please, just don’t ask me about drugs’_. He was so tired of lying to John. Fortunately, his friend never asked. He didn’t like to discuss anything like that on the phone. Sherlock didn’t know what he was going to do about all of this, once John was back. But, more likely than not, the doctor would be too close to becoming a father by then (Sherlock knew Mary’s due date and it made him nauseous), so there was a chance they wouldn’t see each other for a while, even after John’s return from Lancashire. Would he start replacing his urine samples and keep lying, or he’d break down, as soon as he saw his friend again, before admitting everything(?) at once?

     He wasn’t always apprehensive about it if he had enough drugs in him to suppress the anxiety, but now he needed to shoot up again, because he was starting to display usual withdrawal symptoms and had to ring off as soon as he could. At the same time, he desperately wanted to keep hearing John’s voice. He didn’t even like talking on the phone, especially if it had anything to do with small talk, but now he just didn’t mind; he wasn’t the one who did most of the talking anyway. He thought he didn’t even care what his friend was talking about, as long as he could hear him. But then…

‘Sorry, Sherlock, I’ve got to go. Mary is having those contractions again, asks me to bring a hot-water bottle for her back’, John sighed with a smile in his voice.

‘C-contractions?’ Sherlock felt like he was about to be violently ill. His whole body was shaking; he was feeling cold, slightly sweaty and feverish.

‘Oh, these are just false contractions. Nothing unusual. They normally start coming and going weeks before the real thing’, the doctor explained. Sherlock didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to hear any of this. Mercifully, John promised to ring the next day and ended the call.

     His hands were shaking so badly now that it took him all of his willpower to cook up another dose. It also took him a few failed attempts to ease the needle into his vein properly. So much for being careful and leaving as few marks as possible...

     The relief was immense, but he failed to enter that particular dimension of his Mind Palace, where Watson resided. Was it his mind prompting him that he was losing John for good? At least, the drug was doing its job and the pain was gone for the time being.

     The next day, he found himself getting annoyed with one of the cases from one of the folders brought by Lestrade during his last visit. The case wasn’t particularly complicated. A relative had killed another one for a piece of a family heirloom, and Sherlock knew who the murderer was, even the police suspected that person more than others, but, in order to prove said person’s guilt and challenge her alibi, Sherlock needed more data. For that, he had to leave the flat, which, of course, he wasn’t really allowed to do, or ring Lestrade, which he didn’t feel like doing at the moment. He wasn’t impressed with the Work, he wasn’t impressed with himself doing the Work. His progress wasn’t even mediocre. John hadn’t rung yet, and Sherlock caught himself looking at his mobile every so often. Annoyed with himself, he stood up abruptly and grabbed his violin.

     But playing didn’t go well either, affected by mild, but persistent, tremor and general absence of inspiration, which simply wasn’t acceptable when you played anything composed by Tchaikovsky. It looked like Sherlock was having a particularly hateful day. His last fix had been administered only four hours and eighteen minutes earlier, but, already, the painful craving was returning; a little too soon even for him this time. He put the violin down and turned on his micro music system instead, loading the Swan Lake CD into it. If he couldn’t play it, he would just listen.

     He huffed with impatience, waiting for the music to start playing, and his annoyance was gone the moment the first composition started to fill the room. Satisfied with the volume level, he proceeded to prepare the new dose of gear and administered it, whilst making himself comfortable on the sofa. Maybe this time he was finally going to see the Mind Palace version of John again. He felt himself smiling, almost becoming one with the soft piece of furniture, letting his body relax and letting the music in. Only his fingers were twitching faintly for a while, as some sort of muscle memory of performing the currently playing piece on the violin. There was a, rapidly slipping away, part of his mind that knew that he’d overdosed this time. He could still hear the music, but it was becoming more and more distant now, even though it felt like it was inside him, saturating his very being.

     He could be falling asleep or falling into an abyss, it was hard to tell now. Whichever it was, he couldn’t fight it and wasn’t trying to.

 

     The music soon became loud and clear, because he was playing it on the violin. No, not the violin… It sounded different, – strange and unfamiliar. It had five strings, rather than the familiar four, it was bigger… A vielle! His deduction was confirmed, as soon as he was able to open his eyes. He frowned, not really enjoying the sound of the instrument for the piece he was currently performing. And how on Earth was he possibly able to play a vielle? He felt extremely disoriented, but his hands kept moving on their own accord, despite the small flaws, caused by the aforementioned confusion, rather than the lack of skill he had trouble believing he had.

‘Sherlock, darling, dinner is served!’ he suddenly heard Mummy’s voice outside his room. He stopped playing abruptly. Something was wrong, as if he wasn’t where he should’ve been, but he couldn’t be certain of it. His eyes roamed over the room, both familiar and unfamiliar, at the same time, and stopped on his own reflection in a large mirror. He was an about eleven years old boy with a typical vielle still resting against his shoulder, the bow lowered. Not only the instrument was bigger, but also Sherlock himself felt smaller; again, he couldn’t grasp why he felt that way. The set of rooms was his, but the feeling that he hadn’t been here for a long time was persistent, as well as the feeling that the furniture and the décor were all wrong. He must have been practising for a long time, ended up daydreaming, and being distracted by Mummy had probably got him confused. What a weak explanation… He decided to shrug it off for now and explore instead.

     Tentatively, he opened the door to the corridor and was immediately ‘attacked’ by a red-coated dog, who was jumping with joy before starting to lick his hands and wag its tail happily.

‘Redbeard…’ Sherlock choked out. The setter looked a bit odd, not exactly the way he would’ve expected it to, but it was undoubtedly Redbeard, his dog. He had a feeling he hadn’t seen his pet for a long time, but it didn’t make sense. He lived in this place and the dog lived here with him and his family; he had been bought for Sherlock specifically. The boy knelt and embraced Redbeard, who, obviously, appreciated the attention. Everything felt warm and familiar. He then looked at his friend (his only friend?), who was looking back at him with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, his tail still restless, as it was brushing the floor from side to side.

‘Come on, Sherlock. Your brother is back and hungry after his journey’, Mummy called again, and he could finally see her. She looked a bit odd in her clothes that were, nonetheless, rich and beautiful. He was wondering why he had expected her to look older. Still, it was Mummy and he was glad to see her.

‘He’s always hungry’, Sherlock replied cheekily.

‘Behave’, she chided him with a smile.

     Sherlock followed her with Redbeard following close on his heels.

     As their whole family was at their huge dining table in the hall on the ground floor, Sherlock was quick to catch up with the situation. They lived in a castle. His and his brother’s parents were a duke and a duchess, and Mycroft was their heir, who had already taken most of their responsibilities, which was making them proud and happy. Everything made sense and felt natural, except for one thing: Mycroft seemed almost as old as their parents were, which was something Sherlock could not explain. He was a boy, but his brother seemed way too old. But, for some reason, he was used to it. It was another thing that he was going to have to investigate later. For now, he was enjoying the dinner, even though he didn’t eat much, dismissing servants that kept wordlessly offering him this dish or that after serving the same way to the older members of the family.

     The dinner was quite lavish, even for a rich family, apparently due to Mycroft’s return from some important family business. Sherlock hated politics and wrinkled his nose every time they started talking about it. And, of course, Mycroft was as pompous and important as he always had been.

 

     Sherlock was happy. He didn’t know why, but he knew, he could feel, that he hadn’t been this happy for a long time. He just wanted to hold onto the feeling, instead of analysing, among other things, why being a child felt odd to him. Maybe it was just normal for a growing person with an above-average intelligence to feel older than they were. And he quickly got used to wearing all those clothes. Nothing indicated that he hadn’t been wearing this type of clothes for years now. Very soon, it felt natural to put them on every morning, as well as to see others wearing somewhat similar attires. The time that, to some extent, had felt wrong at first, was also easy to get accustomed to. _‘Renaissance’_ , his mind prompted quietly, but he could never really hold on to the thought. And yet, he knew it was his home, where he had been born, had grown up (was still growing up, in fact) and where he belonged.

     If he shared his observations and odd feelings, would people think he was insane? His family members probably wouldn’t think anything like that, but they’d always believed that he had a very vivid imagination, ‘shockingly vivid’ at times, and, otherwise, was a very unusual child with unusual interests and cast of mind, which, of course, they were right about. He didn’t agree about his imagination, though. He didn’t imagine anything, he explored and analysed! So what that he used to play pirates?

 

     At first, he was quite enthusiastic about exploring the place. But, more often than not, when he thought he’d found something interesting, he realised that he’d already seen it before. When he thought he’d found an interesting book in the library, it didn’t take long for him to recognise it as something he’d read before and probably even argued with something that the author of said book tried to pass for a fact. Sherlock had always enjoyed disproving ‘facts’.

 

     In a couple of months, he was starting to get bored. Living there with his family and dog made him content, but he’d run out of things that could effectively occupy his mind and hold his interest long enough. That was when a strange feeling of being watched appeared, all of a sudden. He wondered if he simply hadn’t noticed it before. Somebody, who preferred to stay in the shadows, was stalking him and remained unseen, unless Sherlock had suddenly become paranoid for no reason.

     People were superstitious; there were all sorts of rumours he could hear being discussed among the servants. But he didn’t believe in anything paranormal. There were different ways of watching someone: for example, via other people, who were your eyes and ears, or by using special devices, or by disguising yourself so well that people failed to notice you. Sherlock was paying attention to everything around him to find out what was wrong, but there was nothing helpful so far, no evidence that someone was watching him at all. He knew it was there, nonetheless. He didn’t believe in any ‘sixth sense’ either, especially given the fact that people had much more than five senses, and all of them were real; such as the sense of balance, the ability to feel low and high temperatures, the sensitivity to pain and so on (he couldn’t remember where he had learned those things). It was science, something you could prove; but, no, people chose to believe in some ridiculous concepts. There must have been some clue he had registered subconsciously that made him aware of being under someone’s observation. He felt uneasy and his own inability to solve the mystery was getting on his nerves.

     He started suspecting he was imagining things. After all, the vielle still sounded and felt a bit odd in his hands, and Mycroft seemed too old for his and Sherlock’s parents, so, perhaps, he had every reason to question his judgement, or even sanity.

 

     One day, the mystery was finally solved… in one of the most terrifying ways possible. He was outside, playing with Redbeard and enjoying a rare warm, rainless day of autumn. Mycroft, together with his men, was about to leave for another boring political meeting, so there was a bit of a crowd at the main entrance. Sherlock wanted nothing to do with that, so he stayed away, playing fetch with his excited dog by throwing a stick for his four-legged companion to bring back.

     When the disaster struck, everything happened too fast even for Sherlock to keep up. One moment everything was fine, but the next moment he was rapidly and unexpectedly attacked by a huge, dark bird that grabbed him with its talons and lifted him off the ground. He gasped then screamed in terror, as it started to carry him away. Only two guards were quick and ready enough to start shooting bolts and arrows at the abductor. If they succeeded, Sherlock would fall and probably break something, but it was better than being abducted like this by God knew what. Redbeard was barking in panic and jumping, as if he could reach the bird from the ground and prevent his frightened young owner from being carried away. Bolts and arrows never reached the bird, due to its surprising agility, and the men had not been prepared for anything like this to happen. First, the castle was, normally, a safe place, and second, the guards would’ve had no problem using melee weapons there and then in case of a regular attack, which, obviously, wasn’t what this particular situation demanded.

     The ground and the dog were getting farther and farther away, and Sherlock kept struggling and screaming blue murder. He could see Mycroft and Mummy running to him, but they, too, were being left far behind, as the bird was flying away. Very soon, Sherlock could barely see his devastated Mum, her arms outstretched to the sky, as if she was praying for her stolen child to be returned. His heart sank even deeper and he felt like he couldn’t breathe when he could no longer see her. Tears escaped his eyes as he sobbed quietly.

     The flight was making him nauseous and he started to get cold soon enough. It took him a lot to finally collect himself and look up at his abductor. It was a dark owl that was probably a bit shorter than an average adult human and strong enough to carry him almost effortlessly. It was ridiculous and insane. How was this even possible?! In sheer panic, Sherlock started thrashing a little. And the bird suddenly let him go, to his absolute horror. Then it calmly followed him down, as he was falling, screaming his head off, and caught him with its talons again. Once it returned to its previous altitude, it dropped him down again and caught him a few long seconds later, after whirling around itself in the air several times, looking playful. It caught and dropped him once more, this time performing a somersault before grabbing him yet again. Sherlock was in such a state by then that he could barely feel a few scratches the sharp claws had left on his body, tearing his clothes slightly. He was barely conscious by the time the bird had stopped playing its cruel game. He threw up a little and went limp.

     He didn’t know how much time had passed before he regained consciousness and tentatively managed to look up at the bird again. He thought he could vaguely hear it humming some jolly melody under its beak. Even without the physical ability to mimic a human expression, it managed to look smug. Sherlock turned his face away. If he was going insane, he’d rather avoid going along with madness as much as possible. The cold was becoming unbearable and the boy was shaking all over, secretly afraid that the tremors of his body would make the bird decide that he was struggling again so it could start playing its sick game, just as earlier. The dread at the possibility of falling down to one’s death was normal and natural, like in any other life-threatening situation. But there was something else here… Did he have a phobia he’d had no idea about or had he fallen before and the experience had been so traumatising that it had left a mark, a scar on his psyche? But he couldn’t recall anything like that, despite the deductions his mind was providing instinctively, without his conscious effort. He didn’t feel like trusting his mind now, anyway.

     And yet, he needed to make himself concentrate and think. The bird would have to lower him onto the ground, sooner or later, the flight had to end somewhere. If the abductor wanted to kill him, it would’ve done so already, wouldn’t it? Once Sherlock was back on the ground, he would force himself to become level-headed and rational to find the way out of this irrational situation. It was clear that the bird wasn’t a mindless beast any human could easily outsmart, but Sherlock wasn’t stupid, regardless of what his fat brother used to tell him, giving him thought-provoking challenges on a regular basis.

     He had been targeted deliberately, that much was clear. If the giant bird wanted to bring him to its nest to feed its giant offspring, for example, it wouldn’t have flown that far to get him. He wasn’t just a random human to abduct, no. Besides, he had been watched before, for days. Maybe… Maybe the bird had been trained by someone to kidnap people its owner chose? After all, birds of prey could be trained for hunting. Maybe it was an enemy of his family who had sent the bird for him? Too bad Sherlock hadn’t thoroughly studied the maps in the library. It wouldn’t have taken long for him to memorise them. Why hadn’t he found it important? What if he was going to need the knowledge of his location to find a way to escape? He was starting to panic again. There was nothing he could do at the moment. He was cold and scared, he wanted to pee and his body ached all over. He wanted to wake up in his warm bed, possibly awakened by Redbeard, and forget all of this, like a nightmare.

     The flight seemed endless. It was physically very hard for a human, especially a child, to endure it, let alone emotionally. Sherlock felt ill and lost consciousness at least twice more. When he was conscious, he tried his best to disconnect himself from his hurting, yet numb with cold, body, attempting to memorise things he could see from above: forests, rivers, villages, fields… Would it help him in any way to have this fragmentary knowledge of the huge area between his home and the place, whatever it was, at the end of this unwanted journey? It was better than nothing.

     When the dark, oversized owl started to descend, Sherlock’s heartbeat sped up in a new bout of fear. He was scared of the unknown, not having the slightest idea of what was going to happen and whether he’d be able to get himself out of this alive. The area was an ancient woodland and there was nothing helpful Sherlock had managed to spot so far. The bird lowered him onto the ground with surprising care (even that felt like the bird was somehow mocking him again in its own way). The boy’s tired, cold, aching body would not allow him to get up fast and try to run away, and, even if he could, he knew it wouldn’t have done him any good, at any rate.

     The bird was a couple of metres away on the ground, watching him, its head tilted. A few moments later, it, unexpectedly, started to change its shape: the feathers were gone, as if pulled back underneath the skin, the wings and talons turned into arms and legs. It had taken mere moments, and now there was a man in a dark attire of a nobleman, looking at Sherlock from above and smirking. The dark eyes and that face… Sherlock knew this man. _‘Moriarty’_ , his frightened mind prompted. He remembered hearing an outlandish rumour about a dark sorcerer with this name, but he couldn’t recall any details, since he had probably dismissed them as something stupid and definitely not real.

     The man was watching him with his head tilted, just like the owl a minute ago.

‘Dealing with you as a child is just boring’, Moriarty finally scoffed. ‘By the way, did you like my present?’ he asked, looking excited now. He was waiting for an answer, but, even if Sherlock wasn’t dumbfounded now, he wouldn’t have known what his abductor was talking about, so he wouldn’t have been able to reply anyway. Moriarty made an impatient gesture with his hand, still expecting an answer, but none was given, so he rolled his eyes, sighed and slapped his hands against his thighs in a gesture of mock surrender. ‘I was generous enough to allow you to spend some time with your family’, the man answered for him, looking mockingly scandalised at the necessity of voicing it. ‘I’ve waited long enough, but it’s time for you to start a life of your own, away from the familial nest, and spread your wings’, the man drawled in a sing-song voice. ‘So… Without further ado…’ Moriarty abruptly lost his playful demeanour, his eyes looked like two abysses, his face cold and dangerous. Sherlock managed to get up and started backing away in panic, but his legs felt as if they were leaden, so it was absolutely pointless.

     Moriarty snapped the fingers on his right hand, and something started to happen to Sherlock’s body. The ache intensified, he felt his muscles painfully contracting. The world around him was blurry and he couldn’t focus on anything, apart from the fact that everything seemed bigger and the ground was very close now. Had he fallen?

     Everything that happened next was like a hazy dream, and Sherlock was partially certain that it was. He was crawling on the ground, falling forward repeatedly, his own rapid heartbeat and breathing loud in his ears. Everything was different and strange, including the breathing. Moriarty was telling him something, once more joyful and derisive, but Sherlock could barely hear him. Getting away and hiding was all he wanted now. And he kept crawling, even as consciousness was abandoning him.

 

     Upon becoming aware again, Sherlock realised that he had, in fact, managed to find a hiding place and it was under the roots of a giant tree, which was slightly tilted, creating an empty space under its roots on one side. Everything seemed gigantic. Of course, it would’ve been too foolish to think he’d managed to get away from Moriarty. The man had simply left him alone, in all probability, at least for now. Sherlock hadn’t yet figured out why. His head hurt and everything was still rather blurry. He looked around, nonetheless. It seemed now that it weren’t the things that surrounded him that were bigger than before, it was **he** who was smaller, for some incomprehensible reason. He was very small, indeed, his movements unnatural, his senses all wrong. What was going on?

     He was too scared to come out of his hiding place just yet. He was hungry, but too frightened. His body was still very tired and achy and he still couldn’t think clearly, so he decided to give himself some time and just rest.

     It didn’t last, as there was some noise outside his shelter. He nearly screamed when something invaded it. At first, he thought it was a snake, but no, it was a bird with a long, flexible neck. A swan. A giant one. Sherlock lashed out at it in both anger and fear. Taken aback, it retreated and left him alone. He didn’t want any more of giant birds anywhere near him.

     Sherlock hated to leave his safe place, but he needed to find out where he was and what was wrong with him. He was also very thirsty and, judging by the faint noise he could hear, there was a body of water somewhere nearby. Eventually, he took a hold of himself and crawled out from under the tree. Why couldn’t he move normally?.. Nothing made sense, apart from the fact that it was already a midday.

     It didn’t take long for him to locate where the body of water was, as it was rather close by, even though he still had trouble focussing his eyes because of dizziness; everything looked a bit different, too. As he approached it, he tried to touch it with a hand and maybe draw some cool water into his hands to wash his face with it. Perhaps, it would help his consciousness to fully return. Except… He had no hands and no arms. His breath hitched at the frightening discovery. There was something else, instead of his arms. Some ugly, useless… wings? It was then when he finally managed to focus his eyes enough to look into the crystal clear water of the lake. His reflection made him emit terrified, unnatural, unfamiliar noises. He had to check again by looking down at his body, just to confirm that he was no longer a human. He was a cygnet, grey and miserable.

‘Yes, yes, I know, cygnets aren’t the best looking creatures, but it gets better’, Sherlock suddenly heard behind his back. He turned instantly, despite the clumsiness of this alien body. Moriarty was there, sitting on a large boulder and looking at him, mockingly apologetic. He couldn’t tell if the sorcerer had been there the whole time and the boy had failed to notice him before.

‘What have you done to me?! Why?!’ the boy-cygnet yelled in both terror and anger, but the noises that escaped him weren’t human. Apparently, Moriarty had no problem understanding him anyway.

‘Oh, Sherley… I’m just playing my role. As are they…’ he nodded towards the flock of swans Sherlock hadn’t noticed before. It was probably one of them who had bothered him earlier. They were not giant, as he’d thought, but rather normal-sized for adult or almost adult swans. They were clearly trying to stay away from Moriarty. Motionless and silent, they were cuddled together, never looking at the sorcerer, obviously unwilling to attract his attention with a movement, a noise or anything else at all. Sherlock, too, wanted to run and hide, but he felt too clumsy and unwilling to turn his back on the sorcerer.

‘Girls and boys!’ Moriarty called cheerfully. It seemed the birds started pressing themselves against each other even harder now. ‘Meet your Swan King Sherlock!’ he announced solemnly, before turning his attention back to the cygnet. ‘Well, a king should have a retinue, don’t you think? This… All of this is yours now’, he said, his hand pointing at the lake, the forest and the swans that still wouldn’t move. ‘By the way, you’ll be tempted to make an escape attempt. I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Your new underlings can tell you all about it’, Moriarty warned, standing up and straightening his clothes. ‘See you later’, he smirked and turned to leave.

 

     Sherlock spent the entire evening and night sobbing and crying out for his mother pathetically, hiding under the roots of that tree again. A human would have likely only heard pitiful noises of a distressed swanling, but the other swans, apparently, could understand what was going on. However, as soon as any of them approached, he started screaming and driving them away, so they were compelled to stop their attempts to comfort him. He didn’t want them. He wanted to go home to Mummy; to his family, to Redbeard, and he wouldn’t have even complained about that fucking vielle or his brother!

     By the next morning, he exhausted himself and fell into a restless sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to make it clear that in no way this story is based on films, based on Swan Lake, cartoons (I hate cartoons!) or any modernised version of the Swan Lake ballet (*shudders*). They don’t work for me and I would never find them even remotely inspiring. My inspiration here is the classical ballet, which has always been my most favourite of all. 
> 
> Of course, this is also about Sherlock and John, so all the events are going to be written accordingly. I wouldn’t want to write them seriously out of character.
> 
> If you’re not very familiar with the ballet or want to refresh your memory, I recommend you to see this particular filmed version: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rJoB7y6Ncs>
> 
> Please, keep in mind that this version of the ballet has a good ending (the original one isn’t that happy at all), which doesn’t mean my story is going to end in a similar way. Yet, I recommend this video, because it’s amazing and I love the dancers, even though I’ve seen Swan Lake in an actual theatre quite a few times because of all the incredible energy you receive from the dancers and the music. Being at a stage, while something this incredible is going on, is something I wouldn’t even be able to start describing. Unfortunately, the video doesn’t have a few scenes, such as The Russian Dance, oddly enough, but it can be found separately.
> 
> I also absolutely recommend to you see these Dying Swan performances: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-T2UeKKac-s>
> 
>  
> 
> <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IW3GAjAKges>
> 
>  
> 
> and, of course, this one: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Luz5g-doa34>
> 
> Again, in case you are not very familiar with the whole thing, Dying Swan isn’t a part of the Swan Lake ballet. It’s more like a little four-minute ‘spin-off’, well, it’s more complicated than that, but, still, it is about the Swan Queen from Swan Lake, anyway. I’m in love with it as well, and I’ll try to at least partially include its spirit into this story, to the best of my ability.


	2. Drawing A Breath

     It took him at least a week to even start assessing his situation properly. There were sixteen swans living at the lake, not including himself (he didn’t want to include himself, didn’t want to associate himself with swans, these or any others). All of them were older than he, but still rather young. If he was honest with himself, he was a bit afraid of them. Swans were large birds that could look quite threatening even for a human at a close distance. Some people believed that adult swans were slightly bigger than geese, but that was a mistake, – they were much bigger than that. And Sherlock was smaller than they now, even though most of them weren’t fully matured. He wasn’t a tiny cygnet though, definitely nowhere near a hatchling. He was more like a young teen by the swans’ standards. It probably made sense, as he was an eleven years old boy… or had been, as a human. He still had a lot of grey-brown dawn all over him, and it looked a bit unkempt. He did have a very poor brownish feathering on his wings and tail, but that was it. Unlike himself, the other swans here all had feathers of juvenile or adult swans. Somehow, he could tell that most of them were females (pens), but there were a few males (cobs). From what little he knew about swans, he could recognise the majority of them as mute swans, but there were also three whooper swans. Those two species looked a bit different from each other and made rather different noises. Mute swans weren’t actually mute, but they definitely made less noise than other species, and they were a little bigger. Not all of them in this particular flock were adults; most were juvenile that had variegated grey-brown and white plumage that later would change into the wholly white one. Sherlock wondered if he’d survive long enough for that to happen to him. Again, he didn’t want to see himself as one of them.

     But, apart from their swan noises, there was something else happening in terms of communication. They were talking to each other! He never really approached them, but it was enough for him to move only slightly closer than he usually was to them to be able to ‘hear’ them talking. It wasn’t physical, and it was highly unlikely a human could even imagine any communication like that happening between them, let alone understand them (Moriarty was, likely, an exception). It was more as if they could ‘talk’ to each other telepathically, and it was a complex interaction, with fully-formed, absolutely normal sentences, rather than anything curt or monosyllabic one would expect of a swan or any bird or animal communicating with another one. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to deduce that these swans weren’t actually swans. They were, just like him, humans; abducted and turned into swans. Those were young men and women; mostly women, as he had already established before. Sometimes he observed them from a distance (he always kept the distance). They seemed quite used to this life. As long as there was no Moriarty anywhere close by, they were rather relaxed. They swam in the lake, even played in the water. After their sleep, they enjoyed spreading their wings, preening themselves or grooming each other, gossiping about this or that. It wasn’t often they discussed anything serious. Sometimes one or more of them started to feel homesick and depressed, and it was time when they all kept closer to each other, trying to be comforting. Sherlock grieved on his own, just as he did pretty much everything else.

 

     He tried to find any connection between all of them. Shouldn’t there be a reason Moriarty chose to abduct them for this bizarre collection of his? But there wasn’t any. They had been just some random young people. From what he had heard and deduced, he could conclude that most of them had very different backgrounds, even though they were all from the European continent. Some of them had been born to rather prosperous families, and, at first, Sherlock thought that that was what made them have something in common, but, very soon, he realised that there were also two common villagers from rather poor families and one young son of a street musician, who used to dance for next to nothing. There was a daughter of a tailor from Portugal; the family had been neither poor, nor rich.

     No, they weren’t held captive for some sort of ransom, which he, at first, had hoped for (his family would’ve undoubtedly paid to get him back and this nightmare would’ve been over), they were just a private collection of a sick man with magical powers. And, somehow, Sherlock knew that, for some reason, he was the main item of said collection.

     He was a little afraid to hope that his family would find and rescue him. There were other ‘swans’ from rich, very influential and powerful families, but nobody had come for them so far. One of the few youths was the only son of a powerful and respected French Marshal, but even that made no difference. Sherlock didn’t have enough evidence, but he believed that, at least, the majority of the abducted youngsters had been good looking or even beautiful. But, as they had been turned into swans, it no longer mattered anyway, so the theory didn't work.

 

     He was too young for a swan to be able to fly, and, he imagined, would be for quite some time, and, being such a small, clumsy and slow walker, made it pointless to leave this relatively safe place with no idea of where to go. And, even if he managed to escape the forest in one piece, what would he do next? He couldn’t communicate with people to explain his situation, and people could be a source of danger for him as well. No matter how desperate he was to leave this place and go home, he wasn’t stupid. He also remembered Moriarty’s warning and advice to ask others about the consequences of an escape attempt. Even though Moriarty was full of rubbish, the warning had felt genuine and sombre, even though it had been voiced in a half-joking manner.

     The only ‘swan’ capable of flying very well was the oldest one of them, named Francesca. She was eighteen years old, or would’ve been, as a human, abducted more than a year back. She was, without a doubt, an adult, both as a person and as a swan. One day, when she was slightly away from the rest of the swans, Sherlock approached her and, without preamble, asked her why she wouldn’t just fly away, get help somehow, or do anything else to get out of here.

‘None of us can leave’, she replied, slightly surprised that he was talking to her, as it was the first time he’d ever spoken to any of them. After all, more than two weeks had passed since the day he had been brought here. ‘This place is a large, fancy cage to keep us confined’, Francesca continued to explain. To make her point clear, she then spread her wings, started running and, very soon, took off. She continued to ascend until she reached the approximate height of most trees in the forest surrounding the lake. After that, she couldn’t fly any higher, something wasn’t letting her, as Sherlock could deduce from the movements of her body. There was some sort of a barrier. When Francesca was back on the ground, she told him that this entire part of the forest was enclosed in the same way, by a ‘fence’ nobody could see. To make matters worse, the place was guarded by monstrous hell hounds with red eyes, glowing in the dark, and coal-black fur. They were Moriarty’s beasts and this particular area of the forest, including the lake, was pretty much surrounded by them. Sherlock shuddered involuntarily. He had never seen the hounds, but he had heard them at nights, far away from the lake. Their noises alone filled him with the dread he couldn’t explain. And Francesca’s description had made the feeling of uneasiness even deeper.

     She assured him that the hounds never stepped into the territory of the swans. However, there was a neutral territory for both them and the swans. It turned out, a few months earlier, one of the swans could no longer endure the captivity and being kept away from home. On an impulse, disregarding all warnings, she had decided to escape or die trying. The other swans had failed to talk her out of it. She had snapped at them, called them cowards and left. The magical barrier hadn’t let her through and she hadn’t found any gap. Instead, she had eventually found her death in the jaws of one of the hell hounds. Sometime after hearing her cry far away, Francesca and two other swans, who could fly rather decently, had organised a risky search party and found the failed escapee’s remains, mostly blood and feathers with a couple of gnawed bones.

     Apparently, if you were too close to the ‘fence’, you were a fair game for the hounds. Even if the swans managed to get past the beasts, the ‘fence’ wouldn’t let them pass, even though it did let any other creature in and out without trouble, including the hounds.

     The feeling of despair and helplessness drove Sherlock back into his hiding place under the roots.

 

     He hoped that maybe, someday, any day, something would change for the better, he’d be rescued or get a clue on how to escape, but nothing happened. Eventually, he stopped counting days and didn’t know how long he’d spent in this cursed place. Years passed, that much was clear. Winters were the worst, because Sherlock was freezing alone in his makeshift hideouts, away from the flock, too stubborn and anti-social to join the huddling fellow-sufferers. While swans weren’t particularly sensitive to cold, had relatively high body temperature, as well as oily skin and thick coats that helped them to withstand cold environments, including cold water, they still lost body heat through their feet, and winters weren’t pleasant at all. Moreover, Sherlock’s species (he would find out much later that he was different even here), was considered a southern hemisphere species, so, perhaps, he physically was less adapted to a very cold weather than mute or whooper swans. But, while he was so young, he wasn’t aware of that fact. Thankfully, the lake never froze, even though it should have, if things in this strange place were normal and natural, so the swans always had aquatic plants, at least the submerged ones, to eat when nothing else grew.

     Pierre, the French Marshal’s son, was highly educated. He could read the stars for directions (not that it was in any way helpful here). Just one moment of looking at the sky could tell him what time it was, no matter if it was day or night. And he counted days, months and years. Sherlock overheard him telling his close friend Friedrich, the former dancer and the son of a street musician and entertainer, that those things helped him to stay sane. That was how the swans always knew when the big days for the rest of the world were. He always knew when it was Christmas, for example, and told others. For them that day was always a quiet one when, in their thoughts, they were with their loved ones. Sherlock wasn’t an exception. Years should have made it easier, but they hadn’t. He hoped that his family were happy and moved on. Were they still thinking about him? Had they tried to find him? He knew they had. But he didn’t want them to suffer any more than they already had, undoubtedly. He imagined that not knowing if your loved one was dead or alive, and whether he or she suffered or not, was so much worse than knowing that he or she was dead.

 

     Sherlock and others didn’t mature like real swans did. It took years for his grey fluff and brown feathers to change into proper plumage of an adult swan. When it happened to Sherlock, he was surprised to discover that, unlike all of the other swans in the group, whose feathers were snow white, his plumage was black, apart from the white flight feathers on his wings. He’d known he was a different species, because he hadn’t really looked like the other juvenile swans, but he hadn’t expected to be **that** different. When his wings were folded against his body, his coat seemed entirely black. He wondered if it was in any way related to the fact that, as a human, he’d had dark hair.

     He obtained the look of a fully matured swan when he was eighteen; he knew how old he was thanks to Pierre. The reflection in the water showed him a rather impressive and… beautiful bird. Was it narcissistic or, somewhere deep inside, he still couldn’t entirely accept being anything but a human? He couldn’t tell. Sometimes he wondered what he would’ve looked like as a human by now, but, somehow, he knew.

     He didn’t think he’d grow any bigger. He thought that, as a black swan, he should have been slightly smaller than the mute swans in the flock, but they were roughly of the same size. It had been a relief to have his coat fully changed. The process hadn’t been pleasant at times, causing itch and irritation that made him want to pluck himself bald. He remembered a few days when it had been particularly frustrating and he had even injured himself slightly with his bill, before snapping at someone who had dared to ask him if he was all right. His coat barely caused him any trouble at all now, as long as he kept himself well-groomed and preened. He kept moulting annually, but it wasn’t that bad; he was used to it soon enough.

     He’d long learned to control this body. He even flew sometimes. It wasn’t that hard, as long as he had enough space to take off. But he hated it. It reminded him of being abducted by Moriarty and falling. He only flew very short distances when he needed to get somewhere quickly, not that he had any real reason to hurry, and he was never too high above the ground; in fact, anything less than four metres was ideal.

     Apart from his matured swan body, he had a small silver crown on his head; or rather, a phantom crown, as it was visible, but not tangible, so he couldn’t get rid of it. It had been Moriarty’s joke one day, as he kept calling him the Swan King. It wasn’t true. The other swans didn’t follow or obey him. They just lived as a small community, just as before, cuddling together when they were cold, sad or scared, but they had no leader, and Sherlock had never been close to them and rather lived on his own, even though he always stayed close by. There were a couple of them who had tried to be authoritarian and take control, it was inevitable in any group, but others didn’t appreciate it at all. In fact, Katharina who had tried to impose her unwanted leadership on others, and even had a couple of supporters who looked up to her, had been warned that she’d be banished, if she kept persisting. They’d all been through enough woe, as it was, to deal with anyone’s ambitions on top of that; ambitions that, frankly, were out of place here.

 

     There were several new swans in the flock, brought by Moriarty. One of them went by the name of Molly. She was probably of the same age as Sherlock and, therefore, had a body of an adult swan with white, adult plumage from the start. She tried to befriend him, but he wasn’t really interested in close friendships; he was particularly unimpressed when he learned that she had been seduced by Moriarty in his human form and easily lured here, rather than abducted. Moriarty wasn’t even that much into women; couldn’t she observe and, at least, suspect that she had been dealing with a maniac who, for example, abducted people for fun? She was embarrassed when he pointed it out.

     She talked, but Sherlock never answered. In fact, he liked to hide his head under his wing, as if preparing for sleep, hoping she’d get the message. But she just sat next to him and told him something about her past. Later she found another pen, whom she befriended, to Sherlock’s relief; maybe he was even a bit glad for her, but he was also glad to have his peace and solitude back.

     There was also Henry, who was just as terrified of the hounds as Sherlock was when they could just hear the beasts, especially at nights. Henry wasn't very sociable either.

 

     Moriarty kept visiting on occasion. At times, he just liked to be there to taunt and tease Sherlock, at other times, he simply sat there at the lake just to get at everyone’s nerves. A couple of times he came with a fishing pole and spent a few hours fishing and relaxing. As always, the swans preferred to stay away from him, even though he rarely paid any attention to them. If anyone was in the centre of his attention, it was Sherlock. The ‘crowned’ swan was used to it, but still felt uncomfortable. Moriarty was unpredictable and no one knew what he could do the very next moment. On the other hand, after being torn away from his family and life, he wasn’t sure he really cared if Moriarty hurt him personally, since he had already ruined Sherlock’s life.

 

     There were some real swans, wild geese and other birds settling down at the lake now and then, but they mostly stayed away, as if feeling that they were living next to entirely different, suspicious creatures, no matter how similarly they looked. The real birds were free and could fly anywhere they wanted, leave the forest, migrate, not affected by the barrier. From time to time, Sherlock attacked them, chasing them away, if they settled down too close to his liking. He didn’t want any additional noise from them and their annoying offspring, nor did he want any possible deceases or parasites they might carry that could affect him or other human-swans, which would lead to him being affected anyway. And, maybe, he also had some misplaced anger at the birds that he was cursed to look similar to. Unlike the other humans turned into swans, being a black swan, he had the advantage of making louder noises. He was more vocal than mute or whooper swans. In combination with his angry wing-slapping, like he had seen in other birds when they fought, it was enough to make the unwanted guests move, sooner or later, and recreate their nests elsewhere, if they’d even had time to start building any. He knew that the wings of a swan were a good weapon that could deliver painful and powerful blows. And those birds he had driven away felt safer on the other side of the lake anyway, away from the strange flock. The lake was large enough to feed and house all of them.

     Some human-swans found it amusing to watch their bad-tempered, ‘crowned’ neighbour venting his rage like that.

 

     He didn’t have much to do, and sometimes he felt as if he was going insane. There were at least two swans in the flock that showed clear signs that their mental health had been undermined. One of them could become catatonic for hours or even days on end. Luckily for her, she had a friend who was like an older sister to her and was willing to take care of her when necessary. Then, there was the other one. She often started murmuring some unintelligible gibberish and it took time for her flock-mates to snap her out of it and make her pay attention to her surroundings. One day, she just wandered away, probably not even realising what she was doing, to never return. Everything indicated that she had fallen prey to the hounds or some other predatory animal (the latter was highly unlikely). Sherlock couldn’t help investigating and quickly confirmed that she had become a meal for two hounds.

     Sherlock didn’t want to end up losing his mind, too. He knew he probably had nothing to live for, and, of course, he **was** emotionally affected by everything that had transpired in his life, but, no, he didn’t want to go insane and become mentally disabled. Pierre and Francesca, for example, seemed to have managed to keep their sanity perfectly intact. They had their own occupations and, perhaps, their education played its own role, as they kept holding onto the knowledge they’d gained in their past: books they’d read, things they’d been taught. Sherlock knew they’d been repeating those things to themselves to avoid forgetting them. Sometimes they shared some things with others. Francesca also liked to compose her own stories and tell them to those who were willing to listen. With nothing else to do, most members of the flock were quite interested. It was useless, in Sherlock’s opinion, but remembering or composing did make the brain work in some ways. It was better than just swimming, eating, sleeping or chit-chatting all day long. He was perfectly aware that sanity and intelligence were two completely separate entities, but, having nothing to occupy his unordinary mind with, was detrimental for his sanity, without doubt.

     And so, he’d always tried to occupy and stimulate himself with anything at all, at least after a year and a half, or so, of living as a swan. He didn’t have hands, let alone any equipment, to conduct any real experiments. But he had been using his observational skills to study plants, fungi, insects, other birds; even rocks and soils. Swans had very sharp eyesight and could see ultraviolet, which was interesting to use during his explorations. If he encountered anything that he had no name for, for example, a plant or some sort of an unfamiliar process, he named them for his own use. With his limited resources and physical abilities, not much had been discovered, but there were some things that could hold his interest, at least for a while.

     On occasion, he studied members of the flock; for example, he used his, more or less accurate, eye to measure their size in his mind. He could tell that the average length of an adult mute swan of the flock from his or her bill to the tip of the tail was about 1.6 metres, with the wingspan as large as 2.3 metres, or so. He also observed the depth of their footprints to estimate how much they weighted. The average weight was about twelve kilograms; some weighted more, others less. The whooper swans in the flock were slightly lighter, as was Sherlock himself. There weren’t enough data (the word felt painfully habitual), so his conclusions were, likely, inaccurate. It was by no means an interesting occupation, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. He was bored out of his mind more often than not. It was almost his normal state now.

     There had been no mysteries to solve, except for the one he’d failed to solve… Once he had been physically capable of flying, he had inspected the barrier, both above the area (oh, how he hated to be that high above the ground! His heart had been in his throat the whole time, until he'd finally landed) and at its borders. He had deduced that it had a shape of a deformed and upturned bowl covering the area. He had even tried to dig a tunnel under its border, but that hadn’t worked either: the barrier went down into the ground and he couldn’t tell how deep it was, as he had very limited physical abilities to dig deep enough. He’d kept trying until he exhausted himself, he’d come back the next day and the day after that, even though his body had been sore and his feet painfully abraded, but, no matter how deep he’d dug, the barrier seemed endless.

     Throughout the years, now and then, he’d tried to dig again in two other places, with the same result. He had watched small animals and insects going and flying through the barrier, as if there wasn’t any. He’d estimated that the enclosed area was slightly more than two kilometres in diameter, but the borders made a rather rough circle, which made Sherlock’s measurements very approximate, not to mention that he didn’t have any instruments to make more accurate ones. The lake itself was almost half-circular, but with quite uneven edges. Its length, in its longest part, was about 950 metres, and its width, in the widest part, was slightly less than four hundred metres. The lake wasn’t situated at the very centre of the enclosed territory, rather, it was much closer to the south-east of it. He hadn’t had a chance to examine the entire barrier, of course, simply because it was too extensive. In addition, the exploration was risky. He had briefly seen the hounds from afar or just heard them approaching, as if appearing out of nowhere, making him fly away back to the lake in panic, and, it seemed, they always knew someone was at the ‘fence’ and where exactly the ‘trespasser’ was. Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to overcome his terror of them, even to some extent.

 

     And that was it. After gathering a lot of, mostly irrelevant, information, he simply had nothing to work with; no clues, nothing to be able to solve the mystery that had no logic about it and broke the very laws of how the world worked. As he had met the dead end, there was no way to build a chain of deductions that could help him to get out of this place or, at least, find out why he was here other than for the pleasure of a maniac. Speaking of whom, Moriarty was aware of Sherlock’s attempts and had teased him because of them: ‘You’ve been busy. Anything interesting or useful so far?’, ‘Any luck yesterday?’ or ‘Next time you should take a few underlings with you and make **them** dig, instead of doing all the work on your own. So unbecoming of a king, don’t you agree?’. He hadn’t looked in any way worried or even a little bit agitated. On the contrary, he was quite relaxed and amused. It had been demoralising and undermined what little spirit Sherlock had left in him.

     Eventually, he had given up, as all of his efforts had felt like milling the wind. Moriarty had ‘taken pity’ on him then, providing some false clues and leads only Sherlock could see. The crowned swan had risen to the bait, too desperate to deduce that all of it, in fact, had come from Moriarty himself. When it had become apparent that he’d been fooled, Sherlock had been severely depressed and despondent for more than a month afterwards, spending most of his time in his favourite hiding place, even though it was a bit too small for him since he’d grown up.

‘Oh, Sherley, I’m so sorry!’ Moriarty cooed when he’d visited during one of those days. ‘I just wanted to give you something you’d obviously needed. You were so bored, I couldn’t stand seeing you like that. I was so desperate, I almost contemplated delivering your old dog to you to cheer you up, only to find out it’s been gone for months now’. Sherlock’s heart had stuttered painfully and he’d curled up unto a tighter ball feeling so cold and miserable that he could no longer hear Moriarty’s voice or anything else for that matter.

 

     The big change came when Sherlock was thirty-two. The spring was rather warm after the severe winter and Sherlock found the water pleasant enough to spend more time in it. He had long started accepting that he was going to live the rest of his life as a swan and die as a swan, too. Everything in him lamented and protested against the thought, even after all of those years. He was, in fact, afraid that, one day, he’d just fully accept it and start losing his human personality, mentally becoming more swan than a human. At the same time, he was quite aware that there was no hope for him. What hope could there be after more than twenty years of a life like this, if one could call it life? Sometimes, during his black moods, he contemplated suicide. He wasn’t thinking about it all the time, of course, but he kept this option open. Perhaps, one day he’d do it. Unfortunately, it would, very likely, involve him flying up as high as he could and letting himself fall. He’d calculated how to turn himself in the air to guarantee the deadliness of the fall, as the barrier wouldn’t allow him to gain a sufficient height to make sure he wouldn’t survive and become severely injured instead. He’d probably still die, but it would take days or even weeks. He’d also chosen the place where the ground was rocky.

     There was also an option of just letting the hounds tear him apart and devour him. It was just his luck that both options meant facing two things that filled him with an absolute, in some ways unexplainable, dread. He could just starve himself to death or find some poisonous plants or fungi he could eat and hope they were poisonous enough to kill him, since he didn’t really have an opportunity to test them beforehand.

     He hadn’t been really focussed on those dark thoughts lately, which, paradoxically, was probably related to warm, mild weather.

     He was ready to step back to the shore, when he suddenly heard some panicked calls from the flock. He quickly realised that someone was approaching the lake. The flock never reacted to Moriarty in such manner; they were more likely to become as quiet as dead men, some moved away as much as they could (some even flew away if they saw him from afar, although nobody dared to do it when he was already there). No, there was something else going on there. Curious, he decided to investigate and paddled to the shore faster. There, indeed, was someone approaching unhurriedly. The swans were quick to move away, either staying on the shore, but ready to fly away any moment, or getting into the water, obviously not knowing what to expect from the stranger. The man looked at them briefly, his eyes roaming over them, as if he was looking for something or someone specifically. Sherlock was ready to flee any moment, if necessary, but when he was close enough, his chest tightened painfully and his heart was beating so fast he thought it would give out, because, standing there, at the lake, was none other than Mycroft, his brother. The man’s eyes stopped on him for a moment, before looking at some other swan, only to return to the black swan almost immediately and narrow for a few seconds. Sherlock was so shocked that he wasn’t sure he could paddle; it was the force of inertia that kept carrying him forward. Mycroft had found him… Mycroft. Had. Found. Him. Sherlock was torn between being amazed that Mycroft had somehow managed to locate him, even though he had the body of a swan, and being angry, because it had taken his brother so long. But even those feelings were overshadowed by astonishment and disbelief. What if it was some sort of delusion? What if he was sleeping?

‘Hello, brother dearest’, Mycroft greeted, somewhat smugly, as always, but there was an undertone of sadness and weariness in his voice. The black swan’s body stopped on its own at the water’s edge. ‘Of course, you would be unlike any of them’, the older man nodded at the other swans indifferently and briefly. ‘You’re never like anyone else’. Sherlock was still looking at him in disbelief. Mycroft hadn’t really changed. He looked weary, but he wasn’t any older than the last time Sherlock had seen him, except, now his age actually felt right, unlike back then.

‘Can we go home now? Take me home. Please’, Sherlock whispered, all of a sudden feeling like a little child again. But there were just soft swan noises escaping him. He was pretty sure his brother couldn’t hear any human speech in those noises. It didn’t matter that he was a swan. He just wanted to go home. There was a small pond behind their castle. He could live there and enter the castle sometimes. Who was he fooling, he’d spend as much time indoors as possible! He’d be able to see his family any time he wanted to. It was all that mattered now.

‘There’s something I’ve had delivered for you. Have you seen that half-ruined chapel behind the hill, north from here? You should head there when the sun sets. I’m afraid, it is all I can do for you, Sherlock’.

‘What do you mean?’ Sherlock managed to get out of the water and move behind Mycroft, expecting him to turn around, but the older man didn’t. He kept facing the lake, his eyes distant. Despite the growing feeling of unease, Sherlock couldn't help scrutinising his brother via his swan vision, probably hoping that it would be a small distraction to hush the avalanche of chaotic thoughts and emotions he was failing to keep under control.

‘Mummy… or this version of her, at least, is inconsolable. We’ve spent years searching for you. But it’s time for Mummy and Father to move on. I won’t tell them the truth. They deserve to spend the rest of their days without having futile hopes of ever seeing their youngest’.

‘But… Why?!’

‘There’s nothing substantial I can do for you. Nothing depends on me now. I’m afraid, nothing depends on you, either. You’ve gone too deep this time, Sherlock, and now you’ve got yourself trapped in here’, Mycroft frowned. To most people it would’ve been invisible, but Sherlock could clearly see that he looked disappointed. Disappointed in him? But why?! ‘You must understand that I have no power and influence here. Not this time, little brother. I have come to say good-bye. You should know that I’ve done everything I could’.

‘Oh, you must be devastated that, for once, you can’t meddle with something! Why can’t you?!’ Why was Mycroft blaming him? What had Sherlock done to deserve this?!

     Mycroft took off his embroidered velvet beret and held it close to his chest, still facing the lake. Sherlock was suddenly chilled to the bone by the gesture. What was that?! Was Mycroft mourning him? But he was alive! Sherlock slightly raised his wings helplessly. He then bit Mycroft’s calf, which earned him a glare, as Mycroft finally turned his face to him. The older man’s expression softened, though.

‘Neither of us is good at this, so let’s not succumb to dramatics and make it even harder for the both of us. It’s time for me to leave. I won’t bore you with a farewell speech. Don’t forget what I told you about the chapel’. With that, Mycroft turned to leave. Sherlock had caught his pained expression. Mycroft was abandoning him… In panic Sherlock followed him, making loud, desperate calls.

‘No! You can’t leave me here! Where are you going?! Come back!’ He was, basically, running after his leaving brother, who wouldn’t even turn his face to him again. His wings felt uncooperative, as he kept running and flapping them uselessly. He did manage to take off, but had no choice but manoeuvre between the trees in the forest and land a few times, just to keep running after the older man ungracefully, falling on his chest several times.

‘Mycroft! Mycroft! Mycroft!!!’ he kept screaming in terror. His brother couldn’t leave him like this! He just couldn’t!

     All too soon, sooner than Sherlock had thought it possible, Mycroft reached the barrier and went through it just before Sherlock collided with it. He started crying and beating against it, and continued until he found himself on the ground, lying on his chest, his wings spread and shaking. There were some of his black and white feathers scattered around him. He wasn’t sure how long he had lain there. Eventually, someone touched his back with their wing, but he tore himself away from the unwanted comfort. Only then, he saw four swans from the flock next to him. He charged at them aggressively, hissing and making them start back before he flew away from them, his wings beating desperately, losing a few more loose feathers in the process.

     Feeling absolutely broken, he spent long hours in the forest, roaming aimlessly or stopping and lying down, never caring about the possibility of being attacked by a very few predators that resided in the forest. The hounds couldn’t enter this particular territory. His mind felt overfilled with thoughts, and only a few of them were coherent, due to his still dazed state. After all of the years of having secret, tentative hopes, he hadn’t really been allowing himself to have, in the first place, all of them were finally shattered…

     That was it. He was going to take a brief look at that chapel and see what Mycroft wanted him to see, even though he was completely uninterested. And then he’d finally end this pointless existence. He was long overdue. He wouldn’t experiment with any plants, he wouldn’t risk getting himself severely injured, but not killed, by throwing himself down from the height. Hounds were the guaranteed way to die. It would be painful and terrifying, but he no longer cared. They would tear at his body, shaking and tousling it. That was how they killed. He had deduced it from the minuscule remains of the killed swan, – a **human** turned into a swan.

     By midnight, he was at the ruins of the old chapel, not sure what exactly he was doing there. Any road that had led to it, or any sort of infrastructure the place had once had, were long devoured by nature. Sherlock had been here before, of course, but he’d never bothered to examine the place thoroughly, more interested in another building not far away, which was slightly bigger and had probably been a part of someone’s house. There had likely been some extensions to it once, but those had been made of wood and, therefore, had long been destroyed by time. Back when Sherlock had been examining it, he hadn’t found anything interesting or worth his attention neither there, nor in the chapel. What was he supposed to find now?

     The roof was, for the most part, intact, but one of the walls had partly collapsed a long time ago. There were holes in the walls here and there, and some plants climbed those walls both on the outside and on the inside. They were not yet revived after the winter. The night sky was clear, so the moon was a decent enough source of light, as its light penetrated the building through the holes in the walls, as well as windows high above the floor. Sherlock had to fly over the stones, large and small, scattered at the entrance of the chapel. Upon entering and looking around, he could see that the place was quite clear inside. The floor was cracked, mostly made of stone that didn’t really let much vegetation through. There were some stones, mostly rather small, scattered all over the place, and bigger ones at the walls, but, otherwise, there wasn’t much else. The back wall seemed to be the most undamaged and there was a stone altar against it, rather intact as well. Sherlock tentatively approached it.

     And it was then when something odd started happening. Sherlock became dizzy, his eyes unfocussed, and his body seemed to have started losing its strength. His muscles started stretching on their own, aching badly; his bones felt on the verge of shattering into pieces. He couldn’t hold back a scream. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but his body was changing its shape, that much was clear. Moaning, he collapsed on the floor. But the noise wasn’t the one of a swan; it was the one of a human! Before Sherlock managed to start analysing the situation, he realised that he couldn’t breathe normally and was choking and wheezing. It made him feel scared and helpless. But then, despite the even stronger rush of light-headedness, he chose to listen to his mind that told him that he had to calm down. Swans had a significantly different, more complex, respiratory system, designed to make them get much more oxygen, primarily needed for their flights. Humans and other mammals had nothing like that. It was anatomically different and it felt different, too. He had to remember how to breathe as a human, had to let this body do what was natural to it, after all, he had been born with this body. _‘Inhale… Exhale… Inhale… Exhale… Not too deep, but not too fast and shallow either’_. His eyes watered, he was shaking violently, still feeling too faint and weak to even try to move, but, slowly, he started getting used to breathing as a human again. Reasoning with himself was helpful.

     When his respiration normalised, more or less, and no longer caused panic and confusion, he still wasn’t sure he could get up, so he decided to give himself a few minutes of rest before trying.

 

     He was a human again…

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to make some visual aids. Everything grey or brown you see on the pictures is a cygnet or a juvenile swan. Sherlock is, obviously, an Australian black swan in this story.
> 
> I absolutely had to include all the details of Sherlock’s survival as a swan and I hope you don't find them boring. Sherlock is all about the details, so I cannot imagine not including them. In ballet a good dancer can make you immerse into a story with his or her movements and body language. A writer needs something else for that purpose, and I love Swan Lake ballet so much that just writing a story with dry facts (‘he was turned into a swan, then he met John and they fell in love’) would hardly show my respect. And, of course, a story about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson without complexity is unthinkable. So I really wanted to include some solid world-building. I know what you’re waiting for and, I promise, I’m going to give it to you soon enough. :)


	3. The Chapel

     Still lying on the floor, he touched his face, and his hand (an actual hand!) met his nose with nostrils, rather than a bill with nares; he had cheeks, chin and lips, as well as smooth, featherless skin. Everything seemed in place. Once he was certain that he wouldn’t forget how to breathe as a human and his dizziness mostly abated, he started getting up gingerly. Standing up felt odd, as his centre of gravity had shifted and a normal body position was entirely different. He looked himself over briefly. Oddly enough, he was wearing clothes: a nice attire with black velvet breeches and snug-fitting jacket with silver buttons and dark-purple embroidery. There was a delicate white shirt underneath, rich lace collar and sleeves visible on the outside, looking a bit spikey, but softer than they seemed. His back was covered with a long, dark-grey cloak, long enough to drag along the floor when he walked. He even had a silver coronet on his head, very similar to the crown he’d had as a swan. Of course, the coronet was way bigger to fit his human curly head. And it was tangible now, as he was examining it in his hands. For now, he put it back onto his head, intending to get rid of it later, once he examined the rest of himself, including his senses, both to remember what it was like to have a human body and to make sure everything worked fine. As always, his natural curiosity was also a motivator.

     It was already apparent that, as a human, he didn’t have such a strong eyesight any longer, and he was aware he was going to need some time to get used to not seeing ultraviolet light again (once daytime came, he’d be able to analyse all the differences much better); not to mention he had a good front vision again, rather than an excellent sideways vision of a swan, simply due to the placement of his eyes. It affected the field of view, too. Of course, it felt strange to have arms and hands again; he would have to learn anew to operate them properly. And he didn’t even want to start thinking about his neck that was so much shorter and felt so much less flexible now, which also affected his movements a lot. In addition, his motor skills felt challenged. He supposed he should be grateful that his mind was intact in both forms, despite having different brains. But that was something he had thought of many times before.

     His thoughts on the subject of his body were interrupted when, unexpectedly, he saw a massive chest to the right of the altar, something that he hadn’t had a chance to discover earlier. He knew, however, that it wasn’t something that had been there until recently. It was relatively new and clear of dust. It had an ornate lock, but there was a key sticking out of the keyhole. Sherlock approached it tentatively, still struggling with his body. His fingers didn’t cooperate at first, so it took time to turn the key and open the chest. It was full of books and various ornate boxes. What he saw inside the one on the top made his breath hitch in his chest and, for a moment, he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to breathe properly again. He made himself calm down and just looked at the violin inside the box. He had to touch it to make sure it weren’t his eyes deceiving him in this barely-illuminated darkness. But, no, it was real; a violin, not that fucking vielle he’d secretly hated, because it had screamed: ‘Wrong!’, but a very real violin… It felt so right in his hands that he wanted to cry. Could he still play? He wasn’t sure. He’d have to wait till his hands felt like his own again. Sherlock put the instrument back into the box and put the box onto the altar to see what else he could find in the chest. There was a box full of candles and two candleholders. It also contained pieces of flint and steel to produce sparks and ignite fire. Sherlock quickly located a few dried leaves on the altar. He collected them to use them as a tinder. It took him about fifteen minutes to ignite the leaves and light a candle. He would really need time to get used to his hands again, even for the easiest of tasks.

     Once there was a lit candle in a candleholder placed on the altar, Sherlock continued the examination of the contents of the chest. Among little things one might need for the violin, in another box there was an impressive block of rosin, spare strings for the instrument and hanks of horsehair for the bow. Under this one there was yet another, much bigger, box that contained a lot of tools, such as various types of tweezers, spoons, instruments for making measurements, as well as a pair of balance scales with a set of masses, and many other tools that could be used for experiments, as well as scissors, knives of different sizes and a sharpening stone for them. The box also contained an impressive set of glassware and other equipment for chemical experiments of, at least, small to moderate complexity. In addition, there was a leather pouch with various lenses inside and an elegant sandglass. Another box contained a few other practical things a person might need at some point or another, including quills, a bigger sandglass, a bottle of ink and a stack of paper with each piece having a watermark that indicated what paper mill had produced it. There was one small box in the massive chest Sherlock had almost missed. He fished it out and opened it, just to find a heavy silver locket, a bit too large for wearing (though some wealthy men and women did wear massive jewellery around their necks). When he opened it, he nearly cried out upon seeing the portraits of his parents on the halves of it. The sentimental token made him close his eyes and do his best to control his breathing, whilst trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. When he opened his eyes, he let himself study the images of Mummy and Father. They were older than they had been before Sherlock’s abduction, probably not as old as they were now, but, he believed, the pictures had been painted about six years back. He couldn’t tell for sure (not enough data), but they seemed in good health, apart from the lines on their faces that told him a story of sadness and grief of parents that had lost their child, rather than a story of happy, untroubled ageing. Sherlock let the tears escape his eyes. It was overwhelming. He used one of the boxes to sit down, as his back was getting tired already, and just watched the paintings of the two people he missed terribly and who missed him. Maybe it was really for the best for them to think he was long dead to move on. He hoped they were well.

     When every detail of both paintings was firmly etched into his memory, he closed the locket with care and put it back into the box it had come from. Now there were only stacks of various books left in the chest. He wasn’t in the mood to check each one of them, but they were mostly books on science he’d missed during his long years away from civilisation. If it was Mycroft who had selected them, they were the most accurate ones, instead of some pseudo-scientific rubbish some ‘scientists’ wrote.

     Sherlock had to light another candle, as the first one had almost burnt down to nothing by this point, and he didn’t want to bother with the flint and tinder again. He put most things back into the chest, treating them as if they were the most precious things he’d ever had. He took the candle with him to examine the dust on the floor. Apart from the footprints of a swan (his own), he could discern three different sets of human footprints. One set belonged to a man with a slightly deformed leg. It was highly unlikely any of the two remaining sets were Mycroft’s; the footwear was cheaper and rougher, so the footprints, obviously, belonged to Mycroft’s lackeys, who had brought the heavy chest here, too heavy for just two people to carry, no matter how strong they were. The thoughts of Mycroft made Sherlock’s chest feel painfully tight.

     He spent the next hour or so walking about the place and moving his fingers in different ways, together and separately, remembering what it was like to move as a human. He’d made a rather nice progress, even though his body was aching more than before by now. Sometimes he couldn’t help coming back to the chest just to touch some items in it, just because he wanted to, just because he could. He was about to sit down and make his tired body rest again when he heard some muffled voices outside.

‘Do you think he’s still here?’ a female voice asked. He could recognise the voice as the one belonging to one of the members of the flock. For some reason, he just didn’t want anyone to enter this place, so he headed to the entrance to see why anybody from the flock would search for him. He was quite surprised to see that, instead of the swans, there were three people approaching: two women and one man. As they saw him, they stopped, looking just as surprised as he was. Their eyes shifted to his head, or rather his coronet, and he could see recognition in their eyes.

‘We’ve been wondering if you have changed as well,’ the blond man with a goatee said with a soft French accent and all too familiar voice.

‘P-pierre?’ Sherlock breathed out.

     As it turned out, the entire flock had changed back into humans the moment Sherlock had. Once they were back at the lake, Sherlock could see all of them there, in their true bodies they had been born with. But, just like in Sherlock’s case, there were some extras to it. They all wore obviously expensive clothes and shoes; they had their hair carefully arranged and even had a bit of some artificial rouge on their faces that varied from very pale to light-beige. Some men wore berets and other types of headwear, and some women wore so-called French hoods (some wore those with veils flowing behind them); two of them wore brocade caps. But their headwear left their scalps partly uncovered, on the front, in case of the ladies, so Sherlock could see that their hair colours varied from light-blond to chestnut. Sherlock’s hair was the darkest of them all. Most men were sporting well-styled moustache, some of them also had short beards. In Pierre’s case it was a goatee, as Sherlock had noticed before, others had wider beards. The women wore gowns, while the majority of men wore doublets, or other types of jackets, and breeches. Some articles had patterns, were embroidered or had other forms of decoration.

     From all of that, it was obvious that they were still a product of magic; Sherlock would have rather expected everyone, including himself, to be naked and rather unkempt after being turned back into what they all were – humans.

     Apparently, most of them had spent the whole time since the change at the lake, looking at their reflections, touching their own faces or their companions’. Each one of them had been much younger last time he or she had seen his or her own reflection. Some could barely recognise themselves any more, but they knew it was they nonetheless, just older. They, too, moved somewhat stiffly and a bit odd due to such significant anatomical changes. They were also marvelling at their fine clothes and expensive fabrics they were made of. While Sherlock huffed about them being childish about it, he was secretly touching his smooth face, now and then, and he really enjoyed touching the fabric of his clothes; black velvet in particular.

     And, just as unexpectedly as it had started, it all came to an end when all of them, suddenly, started turning back into swans. At first there was a lot of confusion and slow realisation of what had happened, and then there was panic in the flock. They wondered if they’d had a chance to escape, but missed it due to being absorbed in their amazement and joy, which had made them lose precious time. Sherlock doubted it. Mycroft wouldn’t have had him supplied with all of those things in the chapel if he believed that Sherlock could escape the place. He’d said specifically that Sherlock was trapped (and that, somehow, it was his own fault. But he didn’t want to think about it now that he had a more pressing matter to think of). And, if he wasn’t, wouldn’t have Mycroft waited for the change to happen before taking his younger brother home, if that was possible? Sherlock didn’t want to believe Mycroft would have just left him here either way, whether he could leave the enclosed area or not, even though some traitorous part of him insisted that Mycroft didn’t want to take him home and had got rid of him by not getting him out of here. He knew it was ridiculous and he was simply upset, but he couldn’t help it. He had no choice but wait and see. Maybe the change would occur again if Sherlock entered the chapel ‘when the sun sets’, as Mycroft had said. He couldn’t be sure, but he’d go to the chapel every evening, if necessary. Maybe it were only certain days when it worked. Secretly, he, too, was afraid that he’d lost his chance to do something he should have done, but had failed to discover exactly what, to stay a human and he’d never have another chance.

 

     He was on edge the whole next day. When the sun disappeared behind the horizon, he was on the way to the chapel, flying low, as per usual. Nothing happened when he entered the chapel, nothing happened when he touched the altar or the chest with his bill or wing. He waited; he spent some time standing on the very same spot where he had transformed the day before. Nothing.

     Devastated, he returned to the lake. As soon as the others saw him, all their hopefulness was gone. He was grateful that, at least, nobody said or asked him anything. He knew he would’ve snapped. The atmosphere itself was depressing, and everyone was quiet and sombre.

     But, all of a sudden, after midnight, they started to change. Just as the night before, the process was really unpleasant, and judging by the pained moans and laboured breathing of the members of the flock nearby, it wasn’t unpleasant for him alone. And, just like the night before, there were soon men and women in fine clothes at the lake. Sherlock sighed in relief, because, him being a human again, meant that no opportunities had been lost, contrary to his previous fears.

     They decided not to waste a minute this time and, as soon as most of them regained their senses and overcame dizziness and confusion, they started planning their short trip to the ‘fence’. Francesca was quick to take most of the planning upon herself to both organise everyone and to voice her ideas on their safety, since the hounds were more likely to hunt at nights and, generally, were more active at night-time. They formed a group of seven people and Sherlock decided to join. He was terrified of the hounds, but there was no way he could miss seeing what was going to happen. He seriously doubted they would achieve anything at all, but he wanted to see everything with his own eyes. Others were staying behind, because if there were too many of them, they were more likely to attract attention sooner. The majority of the flock were staying at the lake. There were four of them who were still reeling after the transformation, but two ladies among them were only pretending to feel ill, because they felt nervous that they’d be required to go with the group, and one of them was also a bit lazy to be a part of it when others could do it for her. They just didn’t want others to accuse them of cowardice or of making others do all the work, so they were pretending, just in case. There was nothing really unusual about this sort of behaviour when it came to groups of people. Sherlock bit his lip to avoid deducing them aloud. He just smirked to himself, due to the theatrics of those two and the amount of attention it was earning them. He shrugged it off, deciding to focus on the task at hand.

     When they reached the neutral territory they shared with the hounds, Sherlock was mindful of every noise around him, but noises were inevitable with so many people there with him. They all tried to be as quiet as possible, but their sheer number and the fact that they still weren’t quite used to their bodies didn’t make things easier. Thankfully, four of them were separating themselves from the others, as it had been previously agreed. Two went to the left and two to the right to be on the lookout about twenty metres away from the main group. If they saw or heard any hounds approaching from either side, they would not only warn the others, but also try to draw attention of the hounds to themselves. They’d stay closer to the ‘swan territory’ the whole time and, hopefully, make it there in time, in case of getting chased after, giving the others an opportunity to run to safety as well. From what they knew, those monstrous hounds didn’t hunt in packs. If they heard or smelt the prey now, they’d come separately. The hounds, however, obviously had the advantage of having a much better night vision and could sneak up to their prey undetected. At the same time, having the eyes that glowed in the dark probably wasn’t such a great advantage.

     Trying to be as quiet as possible, those in the centre, including Sherlock, approached the barrier. Just as Sherlock had predicted, it was still there and they couldn’t get past it. He took the opportunity to touch the barrier with his hands, but it didn’t feel like anything at all: no palpable texture, no difference in temperature, at least he couldn’t detect any by just touching. He was distracted by the feeling of being watched. And then he heard some soft rustle from behind the bushes probably less than thirty metres in front of the barrier. The others had heard it, too, and froze at first. They were humans now, but, after spending so much time in the bodies of a potential prey, they were quick to spot the signs of danger, even though they’d never been actively hunted. They were done anyway, so they started moving away from the barrier, giving the sign to the others to move back as well. Sherlock couldn’t hold back a gasp when he saw two pairs of red eyes: one in the bushes, where he’d heard some noise before, and another one slightly farther away. Immediately, he turned to run, just like everyone else did. They could hear growls behind their backs, but, fortunately, they’d managed to get into the safe territory in time. Still, they kept moving faster than necessary until they were halfway to the lake. They were out of breath pretty badly, due to their changed anatomy they were yet to get used to. The hounds were enraged and there were now more than two in the same place, judging by the noises that reached the group.

     Apparently, those who had been waiting for them at the lake had heard those noises as well, and the arrived group was met with pale faces and wide eyes that looked them all over, counting them and looking for possible injuries. When everyone was finally calm and ready to listen, Francesca shared the information about their discovery, admitting the defeat, because this cursed part of the forest was impossible for them to leave in any form. Of course, everyone was disappointed, including Sherlock, but something deep inside him was relieved, due to the fact that Mycroft hadn’t abandoned him because he’d decided to get rid of him, but because he really couldn’t get Sherlock out of this place. It still hurt, but it did make difference, nonetheless.

     Some were rather optimistic and tried to cheer everyone else up, insisting that they should all be grateful for the chance to be humans again. Sherlock just snarled at them and distanced himself from the flock, as he always did. Sometime later, they all turned back into swans and Sherlock very nearly rejoiced, seeing how the delusive and delusional optimistic moods had almost immediately quietened down.

     Pierre, as it turned out, had noted the time between their transformations and shared his observations with everyone else. According to his calculations, they had spent about four hours in their human forms during both nights. And this second time, they had turned into humans roughly at the exact time as the first time when Sherlock had entered the chapel. Sherlock expressed his praise that at least someone from the flock deigned to use his human mind, instead of showing preference to a bird brain. It earned him a few glares, but everyone was used to Sherlock not being the nicest or most tactful of people. Pierre ignored them all, wondering aloud if it would always be like this for them now. Sherlock, in turn, kept his musings to himself, wondering if he and others would’ve had more time as humans if he had entered that chapel sooner after the sunset, as Mycroft had told him to. Maybe that would’ve given him a few extra hours in the body he was born with… Oh, but it was too late for regrets and they were pointless now. He felt a bit exhausted, both because of the transformations and because of running away from the hounds earlier, so he decided to get some sleep, despite the fact that he could still hear a rather serious commotion and racket, coming from the monstrous creatures. He had to convince and assure himself that they weren’t as close as they sounded tonight; they were simply noisier.

 

     They started turning every night, at the exact same time, just like Sherlock had tentatively predicted they would after their second time of turning into humans and back into swans, becoming even more hopeful after Pierre had voiced the same thought back then, providing a nice second opinion. Sherlock went to the chapel every night, but was a little hesitant to use all the things he owned now just yet. They were just things, items, objects, but they meant so much after not having anything, and Sherlock still didn’t trust his hands not to drop and break something fragile. He was also slightly scared that one night he wouldn’t find the chest where he’d left it. He locked it every time and hid the key, so that only he alone knew where it was.

     One night after Sherlock and the flock had transformed at the lake (their sixth night as humans), Moriarty paid them an unexpected visit; not that his visits were ever expected or looked forward to.

‘Oh, my beautiful swans!’ he crooned, looking them over. They barely moved, as always, not daring to look him in the eye. He marvelled at their looks and even flirted with some of them, regardless of their sex, aggravating their uneasiness even more, before he stopped near Sherlock and looked him all over as well. Sherlock had plenty of questions about their new situation, but he knew he wouldn’t get any answers from the sorcerer, who hadn’t changed at all from the day he’d brought him to this lake as a young boy. His posh attires changed, but he hadn’t become any older.

     Apparently, the man could see some of the questions on Sherlock’s face.

‘What? Did you expect me to raze that chapel of yours to the ground in a fit of magical rage?’ he asked incredulously. ‘I assure you, darling, everything is going according to the plan. Everything is the way it should be!’ he chirped. He was actually elated. It couldn’t be good, Sherlock knew it. Still, he had the access to the chapel, his chest and all the things in it; things that Moriarty, for some reason, hadn’t taken from him yet, despite Sherlock’s fears that he would. ‘However, I do have some sad news for you, Sherly. Unfortunately, your dearest brother won’t be visiting again. Sorry to disappoint, but he’s no longer in this scenario’. At those words Sherlock froze in terror and looked at Moriarty with his eyes wide open. ‘No, nothing like that!’ the sorcerer chuckled, easily reading Sherlock’s expression. ‘It’s just… We all play our roles, like I’ve said before, and he’s already played his role in your story’, he explained, as if it was an obvious thing he was tired of explaining. Sherlock studied his face for lies, but he couldn’t see any (not that he necessarily would, in any case). And wouldn’t Moriarty use the opportunity to hurt Sherlock by telling him if something had, indeed, happened to Mycroft? He allowed himself to sigh in relief silently. Moriarty gave him a grin of approval and told him to quit ‘pouting’ and celebrate the big improvement with the others. Thankfully, he left shortly afterwards.

 

     It would take a long time for Sherlock to feel more or less comfortable with leaving his treasures every time he turned back into a swan and had to come back to the lake. He never left the chest unlocked.

     Very soon, he started practising violin. He wasn’t very successful at first, but he did remember how to play. The problem was that, at times, he was getting both excited and overwhelmed by the painfully familiar sounds the instrument produced. It made his heart beat too fast and his hands shook. But he was working on it. The books from the chest were at least moderately interesting, and he made sure to savour the pleasure of reading, instead of quickly extracting what he needed and skipping everything else, like he knew he could, because he didn’t want to go through the supply of books too soon. He wasn’t the one to read the same books repeatedly, so he knew he wouldn’t come back to them again, once he deemed them finished, therefore, it was best not to hurry.

     Some people from the flock were getting curious about his private place and he was quick to make them aware that it was **his** place and nobody was welcome. He wondered if it was just him being his usual anti-social self or there was actually something in him from a swan, making him so territorial. He concluded that it was just him, desiring to have his own space, as always. He didn’t share. Unless… Unless what? It was as if there could have been a person (or **the** person, as if there was someone specific, someone who had meant a lot, but someone he couldn’t remember), with whom Sherlock would’ve shared anything at all. Everything. He tried to concentrate on this thread of thoughts, but it always felt like he ended up coming to a broken end of that already ragged, weak thread and there was nothing after that. Had that mysterious, faceless and forgotten person ever existed? It just felt like another case of his mind playing tricks on him.

     A couple of weeks after he’d started spending his whole time as a human in the chapel with his books and the violin, he was approached by Jeanne-Victoire, who was a rather pious person and one of a very few whooper swans in the flock. She offered him help with cleaning the place, in return for the opportunity to pray in the chapel on a regular basis. Throughout the years, he had heard her murmuring prayers at the lake a few times. Some others, who still believed in the same higher powers, despite being deprived of everything they had known and cherished, did it as well, but, to his relief, they didn’t ask Sherlock to let them into the chapel, too. He doubted he wouldn’t have lashed out soon enough if someone else intruded his place. Jeanne-Victoire alone was more than enough for his meagre patience.

     She believed that their new situation had something to do with the chapel itself being a sacred place and, by entering it, Sherlock had been blessed, and, by proxy, they all had been given some mercy for their sufferings. Sherlock rather thought it had something to do with Mycroft, but he couldn’t find any explanation. He knew that at least two swans from the flock had entered the chapel a long time ago, not to mention **he** had done it as well. Either it had had to be Sherlock, personally, for the change to happen, and it had had to be done specifically after sunset, or nothing at all would have happened anyway if it hadn’t been for something Mycroft had done, deliberately. In any case, Mycroft had known what would happen. A swan, even a swan with human intelligence, had no use for books, musical instruments or other things the chest contained. Opening the chest alone would’ve been nearly impossible for a swan. So, either Mycroft had known what would happen, once Sherlock entered this place at the right time, or he had directly orchestrated everything somehow. Sherlock felt torn between feeling grateful and betrayed. Mycroft had blamed him, but hadn’t given any explanations, and Sherlock had failed to deduce anything from that painfully brief visit. All he knew was that Mycroft hadn’t been lying.

     As soon as she was given permission, Jeanne-Victoire was quick to make a couple of besoms made of twigs, and sweep both the altar and the floor around it, as clean as she could. She also swept as much of small stones, leaves, parts of the dead plants and insects away from that remote part of the chapel as possible. Of course, the necessity would arise again soon, considering the fact that the place was partly open to the elements, but it was better than nothing. Sherlock did take part in the cleaning, it was just… he wasn’t that good at it. But his guest didn’t seem to mind. At least, she was quiet the whole time. During the cleaning, Sherlock allowed himself to inspect the chapel once more and concluded that the walls and the roof would neither collapse any time soon, nor would his belongings suffer from rain and other natural forces that could ruin them (which didn’t mean he’d ever leave anything outside the chest that, on itself, served as a nice barrier for pretty much anything that could damage the things it contained). The place seemed fairly safe. The partially collapsed wall and the entrance were far enough from the altar and his chest. Some holes in the walls and the windows didn’t look like much of a problem either. He didn’t think any major change would happen for at least a decade to come, unless some unexpected interference occurred, of course.

     As gratitude for her help (that would inevitably be needed again), Sherlock permitted Jeanne-Victoire to use the chapel for no more than ten minutes per night for her prayers, and only some nights. He promised, however, to break their arrangement if he ever learned that she touched any of his belongings, and he would definitely learn if she did. She scowled at him, scandalised, and assured him that she was familiar with the concept of property. She came once in a few nights, after they transformed into humans, and Sherlock patiently (or not exactly patiently) waited outside, before re-entering the chapel and rushing her out, as soon as she finished her prayers.

     Sherlock wasn’t free from depression, or moments when the unexplainable, bone-deep cold imbued him, or the strange feeling that he was running out of time, for some reason, which made him restless and anxious. There was also an acute awareness that he had lost plenty of time and he’d never have it back, nor would he ever get out of this cursed place; it made him feel almost claustrophobic, which didn’t make sense, as there was plenty of space. And yet, Sherlock wasn’t as deeply depressed and suicidal as before, now that, just for a few hours per night, he could have his body back, his ‘transport’. When the word first surfaced in his thoughts, Sherlock froze for a few moments, not knowing where it had come from and why it sounded so meaningful.

 

     The flock now occupied the half-ruined building close by every time they turned into humans, that very building Sherlock, just like some other swans, had explored years back. Sometimes their laughter or someone’s singing reached his ears in the chapel. He also knew that, every now and then, they danced there with some of them clapping their hands to create rhythm, which often went with singing as well. It meant that sometimes they could hear him playing the violin, even though he liked to think he was the only one there, playing solely for his own ears.

     Those who had been born and raised as villagers were quicker to adapt to the life of humans without many comforts. But the noblemen and noblewomen had also spent many years with nothing at all and with the bodies of swans. The villagers (as Sherlock kept calling them in his thoughts), however, were good at crafting things that could be useful. For example, they quickly wove a couple of baskets that made collecting of the wood for their fires more comfortable.

     He decided to follow their example and start building a fire inside the chapel, instead of using up those precious few candles he still had. Building a fire would not only give him more light, but more warmth as well. Eventually, he would’ve had to start doing it anyway, because there’d be no more candles left. He brought some stones from the entrance and placed them in a circular shape close enough to the altar to feel the benefits in the form of light and warmth, but not too close to risk damaging anything he owned. He collected some brushwood in the forest, as well as things to be used as tinder, such as old, dry bark, fir tree twigs and other things that were likely to catch sparks quickly. He hated that he had to waste his precious time as a human on anything like that, as well as on building and maintaining fire, but he had no choice. Of course, he could start bringing some light material into the chapel as a swan, not unlike real swans built their nests, but there wouldn’t be much anyway, he would’ve pretty much had to bring every twig separately and that light material would be devoured by the fire very fast. Jeanne-Victoire sometimes helped him with that, and, while she didn’t do it often, it was still better than nothing.

     It also spared him some time to fly to the chapel every night shortly before the transformation. Otherwise, he would’ve wasted his time on walking there on foot as well.

 

     Sherlock always knew about the flock’s new ways of entertaining themselves and about most of their changes by deducing them, hearing their conversations at the lake or seeing their activities at their building, which he could see from the entrance of his, but he hardly ever visited them there, believing that, if he did, it would have been expected of him to let them into his chapel more, which he decidedly didn’t want. He did, however, allow Francesca, Henry and Pierre to borrow some of his books, as they promised to return them before their transformation back into swans; they just borrowed again the next night to continue reading. The same went to some other things, such as an occasional request for a pair of scissors or a knife from one member of the flock or another. Sherlock was very protective of his few belongings and they knew it, treating them with utmost respect. Every item was his treasure. He ended up just giving away one of his knives, nonetheless, just because it had made requests even fewer.

     Not everyone in the group could read and not everyone could read on languages that were foreign to them, even though they all had no problem understanding each other. Sometimes Francesca read the borrowed books aloud by the fire where others gathered to listen.

     Sherlock had long since noticed that, after they had realised they’d be changing back into humans every night, the flock treated him somewhat differently. Not that they’d ever treated him badly as he, more often than not, kept to himself, but now there was something else. As he wasn’t very good when it came to emotions, it took him some time to deduce that they thought it was **he** , personally (with the help of his brother), who had made it possible for them to turn into humans on a regular basis, so they seemed a bit more courteous and respectful towards him. Sherlock was grateful for their respect of his personal space and property. Once, when one of the ‘villagers’ learned that one of Sherlock’s favourite knives had started to get dull (the one he usually used to cut plants for experiments), he immediately volunteered to sharpen it. Robert had done it carefully to avoid any unnecessary waste of metal and, in the end, the tool was sharper than it had been in the beginning. It made sense that someone who had grown up (or had almost grown up before being abducted) in relative poverty was natural at treating useful things with knowledge and care to make them serve for as long as possible.

 

     And, yes, Sherlock had finally started conducting some experiments with what little resources he could get. It felt great to be able to use that glassware and tools. He did it all on the altar that, in fact, made a great table. Thankfully, Jeanne-Victoire never said anything about it, whatever she might think about it. He was too easy to wind up when it came to his space. Probably because of how unwelcome she felt, her visits had gradually become much less frequent.

     It was a relief that, no matter how much they could dirty or even damage their clothes and shoes at nights, whilst performing some tasks, the next night, when they transformed, everything was clean and intact, and their faces, hair, moustaches and beards were well-groomed again, or their faces were perfectly smooth, like Sherlock’s. With his experiments that could get messy at times, it was more than a little helpful. Not only hygienic procedures would have been problematic for a human, but they would’ve also been time-consuming. Sherlock decided to spare his mind from trying to solve something as illogical as this. This mystery couldn’t be solved, just like many other things that had happened to him throughout the years. He hated unsolved mysteries, but when magic was the answer to them, he preferred to stay away.

 

     Deep inside, he kept waiting for Mycroft to at least visit him again, but his secret wish never came true. Mycroft had said good-bye. It felt wrong that someone as meddling as his brother would just leave Sherlock like that.

 

     A couple of years later, when Sherlock was thirty-five, the flock welcomed new members. It was unexpected, since Moriarty hadn’t brought anyone new for quite a long time, and here he’d brought, not one, but three new humans turned into swans for his damned collection. Answering the perplexed looks of his elder prisoners, he said that the flock needed some young blood, as the majority of them would be middle-aged soon and some, technically, already were. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong about it’, he quickly assured.

     Two of his new prisoners were adolescent twin sisters and the third one wasn’t related to them in any way. He was a rather young boy, just as young as Sherlock had been when he’d been turned, which was unusual for Moriarty. The sisters were quick to find a bit of comfort with the older pens. But when some swans tried to act motherly towards the young cygnet, he wordlessly protested and even bit someone when they became persistent. Eventually, he was so annoyed by their recurring attempts to take him under their care that he moved closer to Sherlock, without intruding his personal space, though. The crowned swan didn’t mind. He had been just as small as this taciturn cygnet, a child, when he had been brought here, while most other swans had been young adults or somewhat older than he had been, anyway.

     The cygnet had, apparently, heard the other swans talking, so he was aware that he’d probably turn into a human for a few hours when the night came. But nobody was sure it would work the same way for the newcomers. Sherlock decided he’d find out later anyway before flying away to his chapel, as he usually did, not long before the transformation.

     Later, he saw the twin sisters as humans at the flock’s building. They looked identical and were even dressed in similar attires. Francesca and some other women were fussing over the girls. He couldn’t locate any young boy anywhere near them, though. When Pierre came with a brief visit to return a borrowed book (the one he'd been reading for the third time, because he'd already read everything Sherlock owned by now), Sherlock asked him about the boy, out of curiosity. The Frenchman said that the sullen child didn’t want to join them, but he was close by in the forest, watching them from afar and looking around, but he had been properly warned about the hounds. Everyone had apparently decided to give him some space; they had learned from the experience with Sherlock, both when he had been a child, just as young as the new boy, and now that he was an adult.

     The boy kept staying away from everyone for the next two nights. After that, Sherlock started noticing that he was being watched, from time to time, from afar, at first; but, on the sixth night, he knew that the curious eyes were watching him conducting an experiment from the entrance of the chapel. At first, he decided to ignore it, but, after an hour or so, he gave up.

‘You may come in’, he said, not turning to the boy, but loudly enough for him to hear. The tentative, but not scared, footsteps told him that his invitation had been accepted. The young guest sat down by the fire, not feeling intimidated by Sherlock at all. The man was still busy with his experiment, but, at the same time, he was watching the boy out of the corner of his eye. It was the first time he’d had a chance to take a good look at the newcomer in his human form. The child was about eleven years old, just like Sherlock had been. He wondered if it was another one of Moriarty’s ways of teasing him somehow. Just like Sherlock himself, the new boy was an Englishman. He did look sullen, and, at first, Sherlock thought the boy was like that after his ordeal, but it didn’t take long for him to deduce that this sweet-looking child, as most people would, undoubtedly, characterise his appearance, just normally wasn’t as sweet as many people would’ve expected him to be. Sherlock realised that he had yet to hear the boy talk, wondering if the child was mute, but doubting it, at the same time, because there wasn’t enough data for such a conclusion.

     He wore a belted black leather jerkin over a dark-blue doublet and breeches of the same colour. His clothes was barely decorated, unlike the attires of the adults, but it was of superb quality, too. There was a beret with a badge on his head, his light-brown wavy hair flowed from under it. He also wore a dark-blue cape that, to some extent, protected him from the cold of an autumn night, but couldn’t be enough to stay warm. He looked warmer and more relaxed by the fire now.

‘Archie’, the boy introduced himself after a little less than an hour of just watching. Well, that disproved the already doubtful assumption that the child was mute.

‘Sherlock’, the man replied. It wasn’t that he had out-silenced Archie, it was more like he had given him time and opportunity to talk when he wanted to talk, not when he was ‘required’ to.

‘Are you a king?’

‘No’.

‘You’re wearing a crown’, the boy noted levelly. In truth, Sherlock had tried to get rid of it twice, just taking it off and leaving it on the altar (the second time he’d just discarded it in the forest, as an experiment), but, as soon as he had turned into a swan, the smaller phantom version of it was back on his head. The next night, as a human, he’d had that same coronet on his head again. He only disliked it because of the fact that Moriarty had given it to him, but he had to admit it looked good on him, and he had grown to treat it as nothing more than a fancy piece of jewellery. He also had to admit he was a bit vain, even though it didn’t make sense here.

‘Moriarty put it on me’, he answered honestly. Archie just made a small noise of understanding and they were silent again, until Sherlock realised that they were going to turn back into swans soon. ‘You should head back to the flock’s place at the lake’, he said.

‘Why?’ Archie asked. The sudden feeling of déjà vu gave Sherlock a pause and he looked at the boy carefully, nearly dropping the tweezers he was holding in his hand and almost losing his line of thought. He closed his eyes and shook his head to clear his mind, which, oddly enough, helped.

‘Because you don’t have much time before you change. You can’t fly. If you transform here, it’ll take you a very long time to get back. There are foxes and owls in this forest’, he explained. Archie sighed and wordlessly left the chapel.

 

     He started coming to Sherlock every night, perfectly comfortable without having much of talking taking place between them. The cygnet spent his days, basically, learning how to be a swan, watching others, mostly Sherlock, and copying his and other swans’ ways of finding and getting food and preening. Sometimes Sherlock wanted to be annoyed with his little stalker, but he wasn’t. In fact, he deliberately exaggerated some of his movements to make sure Archie could see exactly how things were done. For example, he taught him how to make a shakedown with his wings (he didn’t really need it yet, but he would), which was something swans did a lot, both to stretch their muscles and to get rid of loose feathers, as a part of their grooming sessions.

     He could tell that the swanling was at first very uncomfortable with the idea of dipping his head below the surface. Seeing him struggling with it one day, Sherlock sighed and paddled towards him to explain that they could swallow underwater and that their eyes were not like the eyes of humans. They had a special membrane that allowed them to see very well underwater to locate food without getting their eyes irritated or their vision blurred. It was quite different to what a human would experience and Sherlock recommended Archie to try until he got used to the thought that he could keep his eyes open without trouble. While he was a cygnet and his neck wasn’t that long yet, it was long enough to start feeding underwater. But, even though he was still learning how to do it, he could stick to the plant matter on the surface. Sherlock thought that, as a cygnet, he had been of the same size back when he had become a swan, so he could speak from experience. The only difference between them was that Archie was, more likely than not, a mute swan.

     Sherlock also told the boy that swans required a lot of food. Despite being herbivores, the real swans often ended up eating mussels, water beetles, small fish, as well as fish eggs, usually by mistake, from Sherlock’s observations. But some of those were more nutritious than just eating a lot of plant matter, so he, personally, sought out the aforementioned, more nutritious, food on purpose to avoid spending so much time eating (he’d never been a fan of wasting time like that, even though he didn’t have many other things to do as a swan), but, of course, those things had to be consumed without forgetting to eat things that were more habitual for a swan’s digestion. Eating was boring, but, with the metabolism of fowl, it was something that had to be done quite a lot, together with drinking fresh water in abundance. Archie listened to him carefully and Sherlock had no doubt that the boy memorised everything he was being told.

     Other than that, they didn’t interact much. Sherlock could tell that Archie was seemingly coping better than he had been coping almost twenty-five years back. He still wasn’t sure he was good at it. It would've been unfair to think that the boy wasn’t severely affected by what had happened to him. He just suffered through it inside his own mind, in his own way, whilst, on the outside, he was simply trying to survive in these new, unfamiliar circumstances. Sherlock couldn’t deduce much from him, as he had first met him when Archie had already been turned into a cygnet, most evidence of his life before the abduction erased, but he could deduce that the boy was loved by his mother very much. He, obviously, didn’t want any other women to coddle him; he disliked it, and only his mother had been allowed to be motherly and openly show him love, affection and care. That had been hers and hers alone. What Sherlock could tell, without a doubt, was that there hadn’t been any sort of abuse that could’ve made Archie so taciturn. He was just different. And Sherlock knew and understood what it was like to be different. He couldn’t help feeling related.

 

     One nasty day brought them a long-lasting, cold downpour that renewed with vigour after quietening down only a little bit. Archie was hiding in the bushes (he normally liked the place and used it to watch everything around him, whilst staying relatively unseen), but it hadn’t made any difference and he was soaked through, not to mention that there was a lot of water beneath him now. While it was natural for them to be in the water, this particular situation was, most definitely, unpleasant, even more so for a cygnet that only had down and barely any plumage at all. It was cold and windy, too. He could’ve gone to the flock nearby and they would’ve taken care of him, but he wouldn’t.

     As anyone would expect, Sherlock was hiding under the roots, in his own time-tested hiding place that kept him dry. He could see the shivering cygnet from there and it just didn’t sit well with him. He ended up calling the boy, who hesitantly left his useless ‘shelter’ and clumsily, due to the wind, started moving towards the crowned swan, whom he could barely see from the outside, but certainly knew where he was. When the cygnet was at the roots and could peek inside the shelter, he looked at the adult swan questioningly. Without saying anything, Sherlock raised his wing in invitation for Archie to get underneath it and hide there. He wasn’t too young and small of a swanling, but there was enough room under an adult swan’s wing to shelter him. The cygnet shook some water off of himself before getting into the hideout and, just as wordlessly, made himself comfortable at Sherlock’s side before the older swan lowered the wing, hiding the boy snuggly underneath, so he was practically wrapped up by Sherlock’s body from all sides. The older swan felt the cygnet squirming slightly and curling up before relaxing into the warmth, his shivering abated soon enough, as he was getting dry and warm. Sherlock himself needed some time to get used to the contact before relaxing as well. The silent comfort worked both ways. It was good, for once, to have a kindred spirit so close and to let the sounds of rain lull him into slumber. Soon enough, they were both asleep.

 

     A few nights later Sherlock broke their habitual silence in the chapel, while he was conducting an experiment:

‘Would you pass me the balance scales and that jar with a sample of soil?’ he asked, nodding at the aforementioned jar on the other end of the altar. Archie was clever enough to know what it meant. Barely containing his excitement, he stood up and hurried to carry out the request.

     Since that night, Archie was often allowed to participate in Sherlock’s experiments or, at least, to take a closer look. Nothing seemed to escape his inquisitive brown eyes. He was a child, but he could be characterised as a capable child, as long as he found something interesting enough. Normally, Sherlock wouldn’t have given a child a second glance, but Archie wasn’t quite a regular one. Sherlock didn’t even mind his slight lisp that was more prominent when he started to jabber. He also didn’t mind answering his questions and explaining what was going on during his experiments, though sometimes the boy was content with just reading by the fire or listening to him playing the violin. One night, he asked Sherlock for a piece of paper, quill and ink so he could draw a map of their enclosed area with Sherlock’s help. The man felt himself childishly invested into the project, even though he did have a ‘map’ in his head. He explained how to draw a map properly and shared many things about their grounds, such as what the lake looked like from above, where the flock resided, where certain types of trees grew and where every major, and not so major, object was located. The map wasn’t very detailed or perfectly accurate (not to mention the fact that Archie wasn’t a professional artist), but it was still fun to digress from their usual activities like that.

 

     He heard others calling Archie his adoptee, which made him frown a bit. In no way he considered himself a father figure to the boy. Perhaps, he was a bit like an older stepbrother with some things in common with the younger one. He wasn’t comfortable with the fact that he had basically taken responsibility for Archie, but there was no way back now.

 

     A big trouble came one early morning when the twin sisters, Alison and Beatrice, suddenly disappeared, not long after turning back into swans. Worried, some older members of the flock approached Sherlock after their own fruitless attempts to locate the girls by flying above the area and calling them. They contemplated to extend the area of search, but Sherlock wasn’t interested in their methods, working separately, as always. It didn’t take long for him to get on the girls’ trail. It was easy, as they were the only adolescents in the flock now and had variegated grey, light-brown and white coats, like all mute swans of their age. Not far away from the lake, he found some slightly bent feathers that belonged to one of them. He examined them carefully and sighed in annoyance when three other swans started pestering him with their questions.

‘They fought about something’, he replied and continued to follow the trail. ‘One of them was angry, which is evident from the trails left by her brusque movements. She was determined to go somewhere, while the other one was so desperate to stop her that she grabbed the feathers on her back with her bill and accidentally tore them out. She kept walking, and, at times, flying, rather poorly, I must say.., in this direction with her sister close on her heels, still desperate to talk her out of it. It is safe to say that Beatrice is the instigator’.

‘Why?’ one of his unwanted companions asked curiously, as they kept following him, walking when he walked and flying when he flew low above the ground to be able to keep making his observations.

‘Even you can’t be so blind’, he scoffed. ‘I don’t interact with the flock that much, but even I have heard her asking some of you about the barrier lately, gathering information. Her tone and the way she phrased her questions indicated that she didn’t believe everything you told her. I don’t like to make assumptions, but she must have thought that your explanations were based on you being merely intimidated by Moriarty, rather than verified facts. Now that she’s gone away, the only logical reason would be a decision to investigate everything on her own and, possibly, find the way out she thought others were too stupid to find before her. She shared her plans with her sister, who deemed it foolish and attempted to stop her, but failed and followed her to avoid leaving her alone’.

‘Oh, my God’, one of the swans whispered.

     The trail brought Sherlock to the barrier. They were joined by three other swans, including Pierre and Friedrich (‘The Dancer’), by then. What they found was blood and bloodied feathers on the ground with some pieces of bone and other few remains. Sherlock approached them to at least try to find out if both sisters had fallen prey to the hounds or there was a chance that one of them had survived. Others were too shocked to move, someone cried out in terror. There were hushed, shocked murmurs behind him, but Sherlock ignored them, until someone called. ‘I’ve found her!’. Sherlock turned to see what was going on. Even from his position he could see a juvenile swan sitting on the ground near a tree, alive, but seemingly unresponsive, like a statue. He couldn’t tell if she was injured or not, but she was alive and, very likely, in a safe zone that hounds couldn’t enter. He was too far away to tell which one of the twins it was. He turned to what was left of another one. There was nothing for him to do here now, since it was perfectly clear what had happened and he didn’t think others needed any gruesome details he could provide now that they had all the answers they needed.

     Just as he was about to turn to leave, he was jumped by something huge and dark. The attack of a hound was like a bolt from the blue. Panicked, Sherlock managed to dodge at first, ignoring the horrified screams from the other swans, who yelled for him to watch out (wasn’t it a bit too late for that?). He could see the commotion among them and some flew towards him. In a state of dread, he couldn’t pay much attention to it. He just needed to get out. But, as soon as he managed to take off, even though he didn’t have enough room for a proper take-off run, the beast jumped after him and grabbed his wing mid-air, dragging him down back on the ground. He started screaming, hearing the bones of his wing breaking by the massive jaws, but he was so scared and shocked that he couldn’t immediately feel the pain. It was only moments later when all he knew was a searing agony. So, this was how he was going to die… Ironically, this was one of the ways he had considered when he had contemplated suicide. But in that case, he would’ve been in control and determined to lose his life. He didn’t want to die like this. He didn’t want to die now. If he believed in fate, he would’ve thought it was mocking him…

     He could barely comprehend what was going on around him, which was Pierre with two other swans attacking the hound from the air and beating it with their powerful wings. Of course, it wouldn’t have caused any damage, but it still made the hound unclench its jaws, as it probably wanted to kill more of them when they were so close, or they just irritated it and it wanted to get rid of the nuisance. In any case, its distraction gave Sherlock some time to try and escape, moving towards the safe territory. He tried to fly, too shaken to think clearly, but flying was impossible now, so he tried to run, even though it felt more like crawling to him. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. All the other noises were muffled, including the noises the three swans made, in order to taunt the beast and keep distracting it from pursuing its escaping prey. The hound was roaring and growling, but that, too, was muffled for Sherlock. All of a sudden, there were two swans from the flock by his side, rushing him forward to safety. As soon as they were safe, the three swans, who had been distracting the beast, were quick to escape. Pierre was the last one to fly away to give his friends time to escape and the beast’s teeth grazed his back, once he turned to fly away. Fortunately, the injury was superficial.

     Sherlock could hear the hound’s frustrated roar and howls, and, judging by the other noises, there were more of them now, attracted by the loud noises and smells of prey and blood. They sounded maddened. Sherlock, however, wasn’t in any state to analyse the situation any further. He kept moving, even though others tried to convince him to stop and have some rest. He couldn’t stop. He knew, if he stopped, he’d not be able to get up any time soon. His broken wing, however, was dragging along the ground, which made things worse. He tried to fold it properly and keep it close to his body, but it hurt so much that he couldn’t. He lost consciousness somewhere on the way and fell.

     His own pained noises seemed to have awakened him. His entire left side felt battered. He heard others discussing how to get him to the lake. Instead of letting them go on with their ideas, he got up again, which felt nearly impossible at first. Every movement he made worsened the pain in his broken wing, even though he did his best not to move the wing itself. He ended up throwing his good wing over Henry’s back for support and they were walking together, the mute swan patient and careful enough to move without haste or much rocking. It seemed a bit odd that Henry had come to help so close to the barrier, as he was just as terrified of the hounds as Sherlock was, as if them being potentially close enough to catch his scent was already a harbinger of certain death. Sherlock could feel the mute swan's body tensing up every time the frustrated hounds made louder, more sudden noises. Sherlock himself was probably too shocked to react in the same way.

     While he wasn’t limping to need this sort of support, he was dizzy and his very being told him to just lie down. He didn’t know how much time it had taken them to get to the lake. It felt like forever and he wasn’t in any state to deduce anything at the moment. Most other swans who had been with him at the barrier had already flown to join the rest of the flock and to inform everyone of what had happened. Some had likely stayed behind with the catatonic adolescent. He wasn’t sure about anything. He was in so much pain, he couldn’t be certain he had been entirely conscious during his way to the lake.

     Once he was finally there, he just sank to the ground helplessly. Archie immediately ran to him, looking worried out of his mind. It hurt even to hold his head upright, but Sherlock needed to see how badly he was injured. He tried his best to focus his eyes. It seemed the hound had broken his wing, but it hadn’t torn his flesh much, no major blood vessels were seriously damaged, so there wasn’t much blood. His feathers were dishevelled, but it was nothing. He was shaking badly. As a human only the other humans turned into swans could hear, he was moaning in pain, as a swan, he barely made any noise other than panting. He just wanted to rest, but he was aware that this acute pain wouldn’t let him sleep. There was no way to properly palpate the wing, but, apparently, both radius and ulna were broken. The bones weren’t exposed, but Sherlock knew that, if the break was fragmented then, not only he would never be able to fly again, but it could very well be his death sentence, too. As a human, he would’ve been able to take care of it, one way or another, or ask someone else to immobilise his arm for him by making some sort of a splint. But, as a swan, there was nothing he could do, and neither could others. With him turning into a human and back into a swan every night, which on itself put a strain on his bones, did the fracture even have a chance to start mending at all?

     For the next few hours, he was just lying there, panting and shuddering in pain and cold. The cold was just him having chills. He couldn’t tell if he was starting to develop an infection on top of everything or it had something to do with shock. His mind was a bit hazy. He saw and heard Archie verbally attacking others to chase them away, because it wasn’t like they could do anything other than make things worse, as they kept being useless nuisances. It made them give him space, but he knew they were discussing what to do between themselves. He also knew there was nothing they could do; they didn’t even have hands.

‘Good boy…’ Sherlock whispered, smiling to himself weakly. The cygnet then got himself under Sherlock’s good wing, only letting his head stick out. ‘Archie… If I die, everything I own is yours. The key… The key is behind the medium-sized, brown piece of limestone… under the second w-window to the right from the entrance’, the crowned swan said with some effort. The boy looked startled at that, but then seemingly calmed down.

‘You’re not going to die’, he replied resolutely (or naïvely).

     All Sherlock could do was wait for his transformation. Maybe then he’d be able to come up with something. For now, he could only rest. His body never stopped shivering and he wasn’t always entirely conscious, which, in fact, was a mercy. And, just as mercifully, nobody bothered him again, even though he could detect some worried looks directed at him. Most swans were busy worrying about the adolescent that was back at the lake now. Sherlock hadn’t seen how they’d managed to get her there, as she still looked unresponsive and empty-eyed, unless she’d had a moment of clarity the others had used to guide her back. Ironically, it was Beatrice who had survived, while her sister Alison, who had done pretty much everything in her power to hold her back and protect her from danger, was dead now. Beatrice had been left to live with that knowledge.

     After a few hours of absolute misery, Sherlock realised that there were no more hushed whispers of the shaken members of the flock and everyone had fallen silent, humbly and slowly backing away closer to the lake. There was only one explanation, – Moriarty. Sherlock managed to lift his head and turn it enough to see the sorcerer approaching him. As if things hadn’t been bad enough…

‘Hello, boys and girls! I see you’ve had an interesting day today’, Moriarty mocked in his usual sing-song voice. The dead silence was the only answer and he sighed. And then, of course, he turned his attention to Sherlock. ‘Sherly, Sherly, Sherly…’ the sorcerer shook his head with another sigh of disappointment, looming over the injured swan, as he knelt in front of him. ‘As always, you’re absolutely terrible at taking care of yourself’. He reached out to touch the swan’s injured wing, but, suddenly, there was Archie in front of Sherlock after getting out from under his uninjured wing. The cygnet bit Moriarty’s hand, fast and hard, making him yelp. The attack looked more like the one of a venomous snake, rather than of a swan. Archie was good at biting, as some other swans had learned the hard way when they’d first met him.

‘You little git!’ the sorcerer gasped incredulously, but then chuckled with disbelief, shaking his bitten hand. He was amused now. Archie hissed at him, not unlike real swans protecting their nests did. Sherlock hadn’t even known a cygnet as young as this could hiss so threateningly. Moriarty wasn’t impressed, though, and was barely even noticing Archie; his attention was back on Sherlock. While Moriarty both ignored the boy and, obviously, found his demeanour adorable, anything like that from any of his older swans would’ve led to dire consequences, as they were all aware. Years earlier, there had been a new adult swan (a very recently abducted Dutch woman), who had been desperate to escape, assuming that Moriarty in his human form wasn’t really dangerous, not to mention, swans were naturally big and strong. She’d attacked him. But he was a sorcerer, so things weren’t that simple. The next day, after the flock’s awakening, the unsuccessful attacker had been gone, and not even Sherlock had managed to find any traces of her, as if she had never existed. Even the light sleepers hadn’t woken up to anything suspicious. Next time Moriarty had visited, he told them they could no longer worry about her, his smile mysterious and ominous, sending shivers down all the feathered backs. He couldn’t have cared less about her attack he would’ve easily dealt with, in any case, but he’d chosen to make an example out of her. After that, no one had even contemplated anything of that sort.

     Thankfully, Archie wasn’t in trouble; or, at least, Sherlock hoped he wasn’t.

‘Don’t…’ he whispered to the swanling, not wanting the boy to get himself hurt on his behalf.

‘Now, let’s see…’ Moriarty murmured, brushing the small, grey annoyance aside with his hand, but, luckily, not hurting him. He then moved to Sherlock’s left side and took the end of the injured wing before straightening it to its full impressive length. The sharp pain made Sherlock cry out, both as a human and as a swan. He started panting and shaking harder. The sorcerer seemed thoughtful for a short while, assessing the damage, but then, all of a sudden, he pulled out a pair of forged steel shears out of a leather pouch, attached to his belt. Sherlock’s heart sank, but he was too weak and in too much pain to get away, so his frightened attempts were unproductive, especially with Moriarty still holding his wing.

‘You’re making it worse, darling’, the sorcerer muttered, unperturbed and rather absorbed in his task. When the dark blades of the shears were brought closer to his wing, Sherlock froze and closed his eyes. He knew that, if a wing of a bird had a fragmented fracture, removing the affected part of said wing, or even the whole wing, was a sensible option, in many cases it was the only possible option. Moriarty was going to cut his wing off… The shears in his hand weren’t small, but it wouldn’t be a quick cut, not to mention that he would have to cut through the bones. Sherlock couldn’t even start imagining the pain. There was no way to brace oneself for anything like that. Shock and heavy bleeding were inevitable, but he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t lose his mind in the process to care about those. And, even if he survived the nightmare, as a human he would no longer have an arm. He was so doomed.

     Sherlock could hear Archie protesting, but he could barely make out the words. When the blades touched his feathers, he flinched and whimpered. If he had a bladder in his swan form, he would’ve definitely lost control of it now. He was scared into silence and stillness, feeling overwhelmingly helpless. He could hear the shears cutting, but he wasn’t feeling any pain yet. He could also hear Moriarty humming some melody under his nose, as he kept cutting. It took quite some time for Sherlock to realise that the man was trimming his flight feathers, those that were mostly white in his species. He kept cutting until there wasn’t much of them left on the broken wing. When he was done, he folded the wing into its normal position: against the swan’s body. The movement made Sherlock moan in pain. He saw Moriarty reaching into his leather pouch again and closed his eyes once more. He didn’t want to see. The sorcerer kept humming to himself, as he started to wrap something around the wing a few times, including the shoulder, before bandaging the limb to Sherlock’s side tightly, but not too tightly, winding the strip of material several times around his body, both under the healthy wing and just above its shoulder so that the good wing remained more or less mobile, while the broken one was completely immobilised against Sherlock’s body. When it was seemingly finished, the swan opened his eyes to see the neat, dark-blue dressing wrapped around him. Did it mean there would be no wing amputation? He was afraid to hope.

     Moriarty was looking him over, admiring his work and looking incredibly pleased with himself. Sherlock felt small. He was quiet and meek now, only wanting to curl up and ignore everything around him. He couldn’t relax yet, but the pain wasn’t that bad now that the wing was set and immobilised, resting in its natural position and feeling lighter, due to the shortly trimmed flight feathers.

‘The things I do for you!’ Moriarty chided, getting up. ‘I wasn’t even supposed to interfere. But it’s not yet time for your swan song, or, rather, your dying swan dance. Oh, how I love to see you dance! Alas, it’s not yet time for your entrance’, he smiled, seemingly both a bit frustrated and a bit excited. Sherlock couldn’t even bother trying to understand what he meant by that. The sorcerer then left, humming under his nose again. The injured swan closed his eyes in relief, not quite believing that he’d got off so lightly. He felt Archie pressing himself into his good wing, obviously relieved as well.

 

     The transformation was particularly unpleasant that night, to say the least. His wing didn’t really move though, remaining firmly pressed against him. When the change was complete, Sherlock was still bandaged over his clothes and his arm was pressed against him; not even the pressure of the bandage changed. It meant he actually had a chance to heal, but there was no way to tell if he’d be able to fly again or operate his arm just as well as before. The pain and worry had exhausted him so much that he just kept lying on the ground. He used his cloak as a blanket and someone put his or her wrapped up cloak under his head (it was Henry's, as Sherlock later deduced). Most members of the flock left to their usual place, but some stayed, just in case Sherlock or Beatrice, who still didn’t move, needed something.

     The first few days Sherlock barely moved; he slept a lot, his head tucked under his wing. Sometimes Francesca, Molly, Henry, but mostly Archie, brought him food. He barely ate though. Molly tried to engage him in some sort of conversation, mostly for her own sake, but Sherlock hardly ever replied. Archie was generally quiet. He kept squeezing himself in between Sherlock’s body and his good wing to rest there. The older swan didn’t mind.

     He was getting too thirsty to keep up like this. Even though they brought him plant matter that was soaked and wet, it was still too dry for a swan. He moved slightly away from the place where the flock resided (he didn’t want to consume their floating feathers together with water) and close to the water’s line to always have access to the fresh, clean water. Soon, he started going to the chapel again. Archie made fire, read aloud for him or helped him with experiments when Sherlock started conducting them again. It was much better than nothing. From what he could gather, while both radius and ulna had been broken, it was a relatively clean fracture. Those bones were likely cracked in some other places as well, but he was lucky that there were no other breaks. For an arm it would’ve been bad, but wouldn’t have rendered it completely useless in the future, unless there were some severe complications, whereas for a wing it would’ve been an absolute disaster.

     A little more than a week after the gruesome death of her sister, Beatrice died as well, despite all the care some members of the flock had been trying to give her. She hadn’t eaten or drunken anything at all and seemed dead days before her heart stopped beating. She died in a body of a human and was buried as one. Some flock members dug a grave as deep as possible without necessary tools. She was placed into it and covered with earth, while Jeanne-Victoire was saying a prayer. As a headstone, a regular stone was put on the grave, with Beatrice’s and her sister's names scratched on its more or less smooth side with a small, sharp stone. Some flowers were put next to it, too. It was all they could do for her. Sherlock had watched the scene from afar and left pretty soon. His help or presence weren’t needed anyway; not that he would've been able to help with his arm like that.

 

     It took his arm and wing more than a month and a half to mend. It was quite long for a wing, and he blamed transformation. For human bones it was an average time, though. He got rid of the bandage then. It was getting quite dirty and took quite some time to get dry, since, as a swan, he’d started to swim again, so he was only glad he no longer needed it (everything had been itching so badly underneath!). At the same time, it was uncomfortable that his limb no longer had support. He avoided moving his weakened arm or wing too much at first, before he started stretching and exercising it. Playing the violin again was both a good exercise and a relief, because he could play again. Sometimes his arm or wing ached, though, and felt more fragile than it actually was. The wing hadn’t quite returned to normal. Even after the moulting when he had his flight feathers back, a few months later, flying was barely possible, despite the fact that the wing seemed fine, apart from getting tired and a little stiff at times. But even that was a progress, achieved through a lot of work. He consoled himself with the fact that he didn’t need much flying and wasn’t comfortable with heights anyway. Waterfowl needed their ability to walk and swim more than they needed flying, unless they were migrating. Sherlock didn’t have anywhere to fly away, and flying to the chapel was still possible, so things weren’t as bad as they could’ve been.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Archie is a mute swan cygnet, so the illustration has been made accordingly.
> 
> The real story starts in the next chapter. :)  
> Also, please, don't worry about the OCs. They aren't important here and they are only needed for the world-building. After all, there are plenty of swans in the ballet (although, they are all girls there). You're not going to see much of them after this chapter, because Sherlock is going to be very busy with a certain character. ;)


	4. John

     Prince John was happy to dismount his dapple-grey horse and stretch his muscles after a long ride. He rubbed the mare’s muzzle and passed her reins to a young, freckly servant, who had hurried to meet the Prince, as soon as he’d seen him. The youth bowed and led the horse away, instructed to show her to the farrier immediately, before feeding her and letting her rest. John’s belongings were yet to arrive, together with a few servants and guards he had left behind some time earlier. John was too impatient to see his friends again, as well as the regent Queen (who was his stepmother, even though he had no problem calling her Mother or, more often, Your Majesty with softness and smile in his voice that always made her smile in return), so he’d got ahead of everyone.

     He knew something was up. It wasn’t often that the royal family travelled to their property this far away from home. They were on friendly terms with the duke of Bavaria, so their access was in no way problematic. In addition, the duchy had some income from the whole deal. John had seen some sketches and read about the place, among others, but he’d never once been here before in person. The small piece of land and the castle belonged to them, even though it was situated in a foreign country.

     His Queen was definitely up to something. Queen Martha and her retinue, most guards and servants had arrived a couple of weeks earlier, but John had been held back by a few political issues, that, thank goodness, had been solved by now!

     John stretched his aching leg and shoulder a bit more and headed to the entrance of the palace, greeted by the guards, including their captain Lestrade, and servants. He smiled at Lestrade, who was also a good friend of his, and clapped his shoulder. The other guards were used to seeing their Captain’s friendship with the Prince, even though someone new would probably think it beneath a royal person.

     Queen Regent Martha was at the entrance door to greet her heir with some noblemen and noblewomen close behind her. John approached and kissed her hand. She smiled and embraced him.

     After a lavish dinner, John was guided to the chambers, prepared for him, personally. He knew the Queen had decided to give him some time and space, so he hadn’t yet learnt the reason why they were here. He did have his suspicions and wasn’t particularly happy about them, so he hadn’t insisted on discussing anything on the day of his arrival. Despite the mild feeling of uneasiness, John was quick to fall asleep. As a soldier, he was used to sleeping pretty much anywhere, whether the conditions were comfortable and royal or not even remotely such.

     The next day a servant informed him that Queen Martha wished to take a walk with him in the garden. He sighed and went to meet her, knowing that that was it, the moment of truth.

     At first, they were having a small talk. The Queen was telling him about the duke and his family’s visit not long after her arrival. But then she started the talk he’d known would follow:

‘John, I know you’re not at all enthusiastic about becoming King, but even you should admit that it’s time for you to settle down’, she started after a long pause. He opened his mouth to say something, but she interrupted him before he’d had a chance to: ‘No objections, young man. You boys only want to fight wars far away from home and fool about when you’re back, only to find another reason to go back to fighting or travelling. You’ve been helping me with our royal duties a lot, since you were a boy, but you’re forty-three now and I’m still a Regent. I’ve waited long enough, wanted you to have your adventures and everything you like so much. But the kingdom needs its King… and a new Queen. I’m surprised we’ve managed to keep things together for so long without a monarch, whose rule would never be questioned by anyone’.

‘As if anyone would ever question your rule’, John smiled, trying to reduce the tension.

‘You know they might. And we don’t want other countries to see us as the weaker one in any way. It is your duty to get married and take your rightful place on the throne. Your dynasty is new and it needs to take roots as soon as possible. It’ll make us look stronger in the eyes of our neighbours. I’m tired and I’m getting old for this. And must I remind you that I have a hip? And, for the hundredth time: I’m your regent, not your queen’. This time she was the one who tried to joke to make things less stressful for the two of them.

     John was reminded yet again why she was so loved by people, even though she wasn’t always a perfect ruler in a traditional sense. A decade earlier, there had been a king from another kingdom, who wanted to question her rule. Things had been so tense that there had been a possibility of war and intrusion. But, when said king had visited, the Queen Regent had been quick to confuse and charm him, both chastising and mothering him, rather than making proper negotiations. Scolded and fussed over, the relatively young man, who had been raised without a mother, had gone home and no war had ever taken place between their kingdoms.

‘Can’t Harry have the throne, instead?’ John sighed, still joking, because his eccentric sister was only interested in getting roaring drunk and brawling in the seediest of taverns, which all too many people were well aware of.

‘Must you frighten me so?’ the Queen smiled again, feigning shock half-heartedly. She didn’t hate Harry, she hadn’t really cut ties with her, either, even though Harry’s lifestyle wasn’t making their reputation any favours. It was Harry’s own decision to stay away from the royal affairs.

‘What do you propose?’ John sighed again, becoming serious.

‘I’ve already made some arrangements for the ball in two months. It’ll be a beautiful feast with a lot of foreign guests and dancing’, she said, sounding excited and definitely looking forward to it.

‘What?! You’ve already started the preparations?’ he asked incredulously. She looked at him pleadingly, and his shoulders sagged.

‘I’m sure you’re going to find a wonderful fiancée. You’re so good with women. There will be a lot of princesses and noblewomen for you to choose from. I have no doubt someone will catch your eye’.

     He’d known something like this was coming, but he hadn’t expected that so many things had already been arranged. The plan was for him to choose a wife during the ball. Sometime after that, he was going to be crowned and get married shortly after. He knew it could’ve been worse: his wife could’ve been chosen for him, but Queen Martha wouldn’t have done it to him. John knew she was right. She cared about both him and the kingdom and wanted the best for both.

     She had been a wife of the rightful King and a tyrant who, to many people’s relief, had been assassinated by the rival dynasties that later were at civil war with each other. There hadn’t been many survivors, but John and Harry were among those few who had survived that war for the throne. Harry had been seven back then and John was eight. Queen Martha, the wife of the late King had also survived. She had been supported by many, but she’d had no legal rights for the throne. It had turned out that John’s family had that right, despite not being very rich or well-known for the nobility. So, after a lot of debates, Martha had been proclaimed a regent with John being a heir to the throne. Their land had been at peace for many years now, thanks to that decision. The problem was that John hadn’t hurried to accept the crown. Military, travelling and his medical studies were among the things he enjoyed so much more than the idea of becoming a ruler. Since his youth, he had taken part in quite a few military campaigns, far away from home, while Queen Martha kept ruling the country long after his coming of age. John was a middle-aged man now, but still wasn’t crowned, which should’ve happened a long time ago; there’d always been excuses to postpone the coronation. People didn’t mind Queen Martha’s rule, but a few had started having questions and people were starting to get worried, which was never good, even with general support of both commoners and nobility.

     John could see now why Queen Martha had chosen to come here. Not only it was easier and faster for the foreign royalty and nobility to travel here rather than to the British Isles, since Bavaria was practically at the centre of Europe, but, perhaps, she was also hoping that he’d feel more relaxed here, away from his duties and politics for the time being.

 

     Later that day, he met his dear friends who had arrived not long before he had. They, too, had been tricked into coming here. Queen Martha had known he’d be happier if he had them by his side. They didn’t know, however, the real reason for them being here.

     Mike Stamford was his old friend. Together they used to study medicine, both equally enchanted by the subject, even though John, as a crown prince, didn’t need it. John had collected a lot of medical books and even scrolls during his travels and, together, they enjoyed studying them (or criticising them). They hadn’t been doing it often lately, hardly ever, in fact, but their old friendship had survived. Mike had never accompanied John abroad, having a lot of duties at home, and now a family with wife and children. In addition, he wasn’t a soldier and, generally, wasn’t into anything that had anything to do with wars.

     Bill Murray, on the other hand, was John’s loyal companion during his time away. The redhead had been by John’s side in almost every military campaign the Prince had ever been a part of (sometimes pretending to be commoners, unbeknownst to the other soldiers). Many of those campaigns had also allowed John to use his knowledge of medicine, which had earned him a lot of respect, apart from him being an excellent bowman. Bill **loved** to tell stories about it when they were back at home, singing praises to the Prince; but he wasn’t a flatterer, nor was he a lickspittle. He just genuinely respected John for his abilities and friendship, and always had a lot to tell about their adventures.

     There was also Lestrade, but he was a relatively new friend to John.

     Bill was quick to invite everyone to go to the nearest village that evening, where the commoners were going to celebrate the summer solstice. Mike and Lestrade declined the invitation, but John was unsure. He was a people person. Back at home, the commoners were always happy to see him, but he wasn’t sure about the locals. Bill assured him that nobody would mind. Apparently, he had already visited the village before and he really felt like carousing tonight. In the end, John agreed to go with him. The Prince ordered the servants to gather some food and drinks, because coming empty-handed just would be extremely impolite, in his opinion.

     The Saint John’s festivities were already beginning when they arrived. The locals seemed friendly. In fact, some thought that the presence of a royal person could bring the village a good fortune. The main bonfire was huge, food and drinks plentiful. The celebrations involved the regular old rituals to scare off evil spirits, protect children and livestock from harm and illness. There was music, people sang, danced and played games together. Many people wore woven wreaths, made of leaves and twigs. Some had them decorated with flowers and ribbons. Some of the women who wore such wreaths gave others bouquets of fragrant herbs. One of them, a rather good-looking one, with a pleasant smile, gave John a bouquet, tentatively flirting with him, perfectly aware that he was royalty, despite his laid-back attitude. Throughout the night, he spent quite some time dancing with her at the bonfire. Not even his leg was bothering him. He knew it was going to bother him in the morning, but he didn’t care at the moment. The woman (Gertrude, as she’d introduced herself) made him aware she was interested in more than just dancing. John decided they had to be discreet and, while many things could be forgiven at the summer solstice celebrations, he didn’t want her to get in trouble with the other villagers. It wouldn’t do if she became a victim of gossiping because of him, especially with her being a widow.

     He woke up in the morning with a slight hangover and Gertrude’s leg over his thighs, her dark-blonde head resting on his shoulder. She was still asleep when he quietly and carefully freed himself from her embrace. He knew it was best to leave now, so they could avoid any awkward conversations. It was highly unlikely they would see each other again, but he would send a discreet servant to her later with a gift (a pendant or anything like that). He hoped she wouldn’t be insulted by it. They were from different cultures, even though they had a lot in common. He hoped she would understand that he wasn’t treating her like a harlot by sending her a gift, but rather wanted to express his genuine gratitude for the great time and apologise for leaving her like this. She could keep or sell the gift if she wished.

 

     The following evening he finally confessed to his friends that he was soon to get married and ascend the throne. The others could tell he wasn’t very happy about it.

‘So, that’s what the upcoming ball is going to be about’, Mike nodded in understanding.

‘Well, you knew it was going to happen, sooner or later. At least, you’ve got two months of absolute freedom, so let’s take the best out of it, shall we?!’ Bill tried to cheer him up.

‘Getting married isn’t that bad’, Mike attempted as well.

‘Unless your wife sleeps with some of your subordinates’, the redhead said jokingly, casting a glance at Lestrade.

‘Oi! Shut it!’ Lestrade scowled. ‘Anyway, it’s not the end of the world. Many kings and queens take lovers after getting married’.

‘Our Prince John is a romantic’, Bill smiled with mock coquettishness. ‘He would prefer to marry for love’.

‘Must I remind you that our Prince here, as well as yourself, have had more women than you could fit into this castle?’ Mike smiled, raising an eyebrow.

‘But that’s just fucking, and we’re talking about marriage here’, Bill countered.

‘You know what, John’, Mike started after having a sip of ale. ‘You should go hunting. It’ll take your mind off all the worries for now. People say the forest to the south-east from here is full of game. Really, go, you don’t have to brood here while people are starting to get busy with preparations for that ball of yours’.

 

     John actually liked the idea. Mike knew him well enough to propose something that he knew would work. The portly man himself refused to go with him, because he was bad at hunting, as he was quick to remind, and had some unfinished business. Both Bill and Lestrade, however, were happy to accompany their Prince the very next day.

     They left their horses at the path in the forest, where a servant was also left to look after them, while the three friends with another servant moved deeper into the forest.

     The hunt was more or less successful. They’d managed to kill some small game, but their real achievement was a wild boar.

     When it was getting dark, they decided to make a fire, to cook and eat some of their game, and rest. After that, they planned to have some sleep and move back to the castle early in the morning, using a different, longer way, so that they could hunt some more on their way back. The servant, who had been looking after their horses and all the things the horses were carrying, managed to find them, as he had been instructed beforehand, and the hunters made beds for themselves, using their belongings they’d taken off the horses’ backs. The grouse and the hare were delicious, Bill’s jokes funny, and, quite pleased with themselves, everyone fell asleep soon enough, including the servants.

     John woke up from a nightmare that involved dying soldiers and flying arrows, one of which had been sticking out of his shoulder. He massaged said shoulder that, fortunately, hadn’t had an arrow in it for a while now. He could tell it was still quite early, probably not even midnight yet. John was hoping to fall asleep again, but, evidently, it wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. Frustrated, he got dressed and decided to take a short walk, not wandering too far away from their small camp. He took his crossbow with him, just in case. Its weight on his back always felt right.

     He was deep in thought when he realised that he had gone farther away from the camp than he’d originally intended to. It was nothing, as he knew where to go anyway, but when he turned back, he suddenly heard some rustling not far away, in an opposite direction to the camp. Curious, he decided to investigate. If it was something edible, he’d add it to their other game. He moved in the direction of the noise.

 

     Sherlock wasn’t far away from the chapel and he was close to his nightly transformation when he decided not to waste time and find a sample of moss for his experiment. It was highly unlikely he’d be able to carefully pick it and bring it to the chapel in his swan form, but he was about to change into a human, so he could wait. And, while he was waiting, he could find something that looked like something he could use. His search brought him close to the barrier, and he kept it in his mind, the trauma still rather fresh after getting between one of the hounds’ jaws about three years back, which hadn’t been a good addition to his initial phobia of the creatures.

     Once he heard some rustling noise somewhere behind the barrier, he jumped and his heart stuttered with uneasiness. He knew this place and he knew where exactly the barrier was, so he could tell that he was inside the ‘swan zone’, where hounds couldn’t get him. He double-checked it to be sure. But, even being in a safe territory, if he saw a hound anywhere nearby, he’d fly away. He really didn’t want to encounter any of those beasts, especially now that he was about to become weak and disoriented by the transformation for a short while. He went back to searching for his perfect sample of moss, or two, but remained on his guard. More noise from not far away made him look for the source again. He was suddenly aware that those weren’t the sounds that hounds produced. Once he concentrated on listening, he quickly realised that only a bipedal creature could make them. Intrigued, but slightly scared, too, he risked moving closer to the ‘fence’, aware that he was close to leaving the safe area. He looked around to make sure nothing was about to attack him. And then, unexpectedly, there was a human, moving quietly from behind the trees. The man was holding a crossbow in his hands. Sherlock was about to curl up, hoping that he wouldn’t be seen in the dark, but it was too late, as the stranger was looking straight at him, at first with confusion and then in awe.

 

     John couldn’t believe his eyes. He had seen black swans during his travels, but the one currently in front of him wore a silver crown that looked a bit glittery in the moonlight, which was the reason the Prince saw the strange creature, in the first place, because, otherwise, he wouldn’t have noticed it in the dark. He’d lost the trail of something he had been chasing before, but found this magnificent swan instead. A crowned swan… Was it the product of somebody’s odd sense of humour? Or, perhaps, he was dreaming and wasn’t aware of it? In any case, he wasn’t going to shoot the swan, at least not until he found out what kind of marvel it was. Actually, he didn’t think he’d kill it in any case. Why anybody would want to kill a wonder like this? It definitely was something more than a regular swan; or maybe he thought that because of the crown and the fact that the bird was in the forest in the middle of a night, rather than somewhere at the water. He couldn’t see or hear a body of water nearby, unless it was much farther.

     The bird was looking back at him with what he could describe as fear and, possibly, curiosity, not moving at all. But he could be imagining things, since there wasn’t nearly enough light to take a good look for making such unrealistic conclusions. John realised that he was holding his crossbow unconsciously trained at the swan. He started to lower his weapon when, all of a sudden, there was some loud barking growl, and he saw something huge moving very fast in the direction of the swan. The bird jumped in a startled terror and produced a barely audible noise that sounded somewhat like a gasp. John was quick to shoot a bolt into the huge beast. Its howl was so loud it was almost ear-splitting. Everything was happening faster than he could really follow, but he managed to notice that the beast had red, glowing eyes and black, dishevelled fur. He hadn’t seen anything like this before, but it wasn’t the best time to marvel. His skilled hands were already loading the next bolt, which was a great idea, because the wounded beast had turned on him now, forgetting about the swan, who was in the process of escaping, its wings flapping violently in a somewhat disjointed manner.

     The attacker was some sort of a huge, possibly rabid, dog, a wolf, or some other canine; a demonic-looking one. John had no time to think about it, as he was being attacked. His hands were perfectly steady when he shot the next bolt straight between the beast’s eyes. It made a short, abrupt squealing howl and collapsed onto the ground, never reaching John. Its massive paws were jerking in convulsions for a few moments, but then it stopped moving and breathing altogether. John released the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He reloaded his crossbow, in case something else would decide to attack him, and focussed his attention on the escaping swan. Not wanting to lose sight of it, he followed, seeing the glittery crown in the dark and taking notice in which direction the bird was moving. However, in a few seconds, he heard more beasts behind his back, probably attracted by all the noise, and they sounded like they were going absolutely insane. John was about to run, planning to turn and shoot in the process, but he stopped in his tracks when he realised that the beasts couldn’t follow him, for some reason. It looked like they were in front of something invisible, furiously pawing at it and at the earth near it. Judging by the number of pairs of the glowing eyes, there were four of them. John whistled to himself, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Good God, what was this place?!

     Still ready for an attack, John picked up a stone, a rather heavy one, but not big enough to require more than one hand. After weighting the stone on his palm, he experimentally threw it at one of the beasts. It was a painful blow, even though a creature as big as that could hardly be damaged by it. He managed to make them even angrier, and yet, they couldn’t overcome some invisible obstacle that hadn’t affected John himself earlier. ‘Magic’ was the only word that came to mind, as he was trying to find any explanation to what was going on. He wasn’t the one who believed in such things, but here they were.

     The beasts were so furious, they were practically climbing over each other now, completely mad. They were so worked up that they even started swatting at each other. He considered killing all of the demonic creatures, but he couldn’t waste any more bolts, in case he needed them later. He hoped his friends were safe, with the forest having something like this living in it. Since it appeared that he wasn’t going to be chased after, he decided to continue pursuing the crowned swan and at least take a better look at it before finding another way to the camp, without having to deal with monsters. If the swan had flown away, however, it was unlikely that he’d be able locate it now. Still, he went in the direction he had last seen it running and flying in. Soon, it became apparent that he’d definitely lost it now, but then, something caught his attention. The swan’s crown wasn’t very shiny per se, it had seemed to be made of pure silver, but the moonlight illuminated it nicely when it captured it in certain ways, depending on the bird’s position, or when it moved. So, when John’s eye had caught a silvery sparkle, not really close, but still within the limit of his vision, the Prince immediately followed it, trying to make as little noise as he could. There was a mountain ahead; no, some medium-size building that time hadn’t spared much, from what he could see now. The last time he saw a sparkle was before it disappeared into the building.

 

     Sherlock couldn’t believe he had got himself into a trouble like this; he also couldn’t believe that his curiosity had nearly got him killed or crippled again. At least, the hunter had killed the hound that could have ended Sherlock’s life or disabled him, this time for good. He could feel he was starting to change. Soon, others were going to come to their own building nearby, and there was a chance they would encounter the man. He worried about Archie. What if the man was evil? No, he hadn’t looked like that. But there were so many ways some sort of misunderstanding could create a bad situation. Sherlock was both intrigued and nervous. Maybe the man would just go away? If it wasn’t for the other swans, Sherlock would’ve just changed, hidden in here, and avoided starting the fire tonight, so it wouldn’t be visible in the dark and attract attention. He would’ve stayed quiet and waited for this unusual night to pass. But others weren’t going to be quiet, as they weren’t even aware of the situation. He had no more time as a swan to fly to the lake and warn them. At the same time, once he changed and fully regained his senses, he could, possibly, go and talk to that stranger, if he hadn’t yet left the area.

     On the one hand, the hunter hadn’t seemed evil, but, from the look of his face and steadiness of his hands, Sherlock, despite being in a state of panic back then, could deduce that the man was truly accustomed to violence and murder, and, no, it wasn’t about him hunting animals. Did Sherlock truly want to go and talk to someone like that? He was going to have to go and meet Archie on the way, to make sure the boy got here safely. And, if he moved quietly… He was changing now, so his thoughts were no longer clear for the time being. The transformation was something he hadn’t really got used to, even after all of those years, but he knew how to move and breathe to make the recovering process faster than during that choking, panicked nightmare his first several transformations had been.

     His human body started regaining its balance and his mind was going back to normal, as he found himself half-sitting, half-lying on the floor. He sat up, willing the dizziness away when, all of a sudden, there were soft footsteps at the entrance. Someone had stepped over all of those stones and entered the chapel, and it wasn't Archie. Sherlock froze at the realisation and forced his eyes to focus. The man had found him! In fact, the hunter was inside now, but he stopped abruptly, looking at Sherlock with his eyes wide, mesmerised. The cursed moon had made his crown glitter… Of course, it had brought the stranger here. And now its light was flowing into the chapel from the entrance, and partly from where the wall was half ruined, letting the stranger have a relatively good look at him, while Sherlock could barely see his face because of the direction of the moonlight. Still, he managed to see the man’s eyes fixated on his coronet, because, of course, it resembled the crown he had seen on the swan (that fucking crown…). Sherlock tried to think what he could do to protect himself in case of attack. He looked around covertly. There was nothing he could use as weapon. In addition, he was still reeling after the transformation. And, even if he wasn’t, he had no chance against the stranger’s crossbow after witnessing how exceptionally quick and accurate the bowman was. It meant he could only try to talk the stranger out of killing him, if that was what the man was planning. Sherlock couldn’t be sure, seeing him so poorly. He would’ve deduced his intentions otherwise.

‘Don’t kill me’, he just said softly. It was likely going to be quite enough to at least reveal the stranger’s intentions. From what he had seen before, the man wasn’t evil, but he was a cold, unwavering killer, at the same time, and it, obviously, went far beyond killing a monstrous attacker. It was intriguing.

‘Oh… I’m sorry’. The bowman lowered his weapon immediately, realising that the way he’d been holding it could seem threatening. ‘I’m not going to do anything to you’, he said. Sherlock relaxed a little, but not entirely. As a swan with a crown, he would’ve made an interesting trophy for a hunter, but, as a human, he wasn’t sure what would happen if he, for example, made a sudden movement; the bowman had admirably quick reactions. Apparently, the stranger could see his doubtful look, because the next thing he said was: ‘I’m going to put it down now. I’m not going to hurt you, you have my word’, he promised firmly, yet softly. He approached the wall at the exit and, slowly, put the crossbow next to it. After that, he returned to the spot where he’d been earlier. Sherlock saw a sheathed knife attached to his belt and the man noticed his look: ‘Want me to put it there as well?’

‘No, it’s fine, as long as it stays where it is’, Sherlock replied. His eyes took notice of every single move the man made. It seemed the stranger was slightly struggling with a limp, and Sherlock couldn’t explain the feeling of déjà vu that washed over him at that and other little things he noticed about the hunter. He had already deduced that the man had strong moral principles, and it made him relax a bit more.

‘I only had my crossbow at the ready, because of those… ’ the man made a helpless gesture with his hands, trying to find an appropriate word. ‘…Wolves?’  

‘They are called hounds’.

‘Hounds then…’ The silence that followed was awkward and the stranger was the first one to break it. ‘Do you live somewhere nearby?’

‘Perhaps’, Sherlock replied evasively. How could he even start explaining? Did he want to? Was it safe?

‘Look, I didn’t mean to scare you or intrude. I’m going to leave in a moment. I thought I was following that swan’. The man shook his head and looked around, seemingly to confirm the fact that the swan wasn’t here. But then, Sherlock could tell the man’s eyes were once more directed at his coronet. ‘But you probably know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

‘Perhaps’, Sherlock said again. Had he just seen the corners of the man’s mouth quirking up a bit?

‘If you’re worried about your swan, I wasn’t going to hurt it either; I just… thought it was unusual and beautiful, and wanted to take a closer look at it’. Even with the lack of light, Sherlock could see and hear sincerity coming from the stranger. He preened a bit at being called unusual and beautiful; preened figuratively, of course, not in a swan’s manner. He inwardly huffed at his own reaction. Wasn’t he pathetic?

‘I appreciate you not causing it harm’, was all he could answer. The stranger rubbed his face with his palms slightly.

‘God, this is all so strange. What is this place? Everything was normal, but then it was like stepping into another… place. It doesn’t make sense’.

‘I couldn’t agree more’, Sherlock shrugged and then got up with a bit of effort. ‘Don’t come closer’, he warned.

‘All right’, the man agreed. Sherlock went slightly farther into the chapel, looking over his shoulder now and then, to be absolutely certain he wasn’t in any danger, despite his earlier deductions. At the same time, it wasn’t easy to stay alert, because there was something about the man that made Sherlock feel safe after their short talk alone. He stopped at the hearth that he’d made years back and had been using since then. Normally, everything he needed for making fire was prepared beforehand, and tonight wasn’t an exception. It was a habit he’d gradually developed throughout the years, and it was something he and Archie took care of most nights, shortly before their transformation back into swans.

     It seemed very useful now, because he had everything at hand and it didn’t take long for him to make fire. Before long, the warm, soft light filled the chapel. He hoped the stranger wouldn’t notice the chest behind the altar. As always, he was protective of it. It was unlikely, though, that the man would’ve found anything precious for himself in it. It was precious to Sherlock, at least partly because he had no access to the world outside the barrier. Was he worrying too much? He found himself quite nervous, not really because he thought the stranger was dangerous to him, but because he hadn’t seen anyone from the outside for quite a long time.

     Finally, he could see the man better, which had been the plan. Besides, Archie was going to come here soon and Sherlock didn’t want him to stumble upon a stranger in the dark. There were two large stones near the hearth, normally used for sitting, as they were flat at the top (not really comfortable, but beggars couldn’t be choosers). Sherlock invited the man to sit down onto one of them, whilst occupying the other one.

‘My name is John. It’s nice to meet you.., despite the odd circumstances’, the man introduced himself politely. Of course, his name was John. There was no other name that would’ve fit him, Sherlock thought, surprising himself a bit.

‘Sherlock’, he murmured, too busy scrutinising the person in front of him to care about pleasantries. The results of is deductions were quite unexpected.

 

     John wasn’t sure why the younger man was looking him over like that. The Prince thought he probably looked somewhat similar when he studied a new book on medicine. He allowed himself to be studied, even though he didn’t really understand what was going on just yet. He took his time watching Sherlock as well, while, at the same time, trying to come to terms with all the strange things that had happened within such a short period of time. Everything seemed quite surreal. At first, that swan (Sherlock’s pet?), then the hounds from hell, followed by finding this man in this ancient, godforsaken place, sitting on the floor in the dark. He could assume that the dark-haired man lived here, because he certainly looked comfortable and accustomed to the place, but it couldn’t be the truth. He looked so well-groomed, dressed in an obviously expensive, tidy attire. It couldn’t have been maintained in a place like this, and the clothes didn’t look like anything one would wear for travelling. John, of course, quickly recognised the English accent (as if he could ever not recognise someone native to his neighbouring country), which, too, was hardly usual to find in a wilderness of Bavaria. What an English nobleman, and, judging by the clothes and some of his manners, he was one, was doing here was a mystery to the Prince.

     But his observations were nothing, comparing to what he heard when Sherlock finally opened his mouth to speak. The man suddenly knew a great deal of things about him, from the fact that he was a royal person to the fact that he’d plucked a grouse not long ago before cooking and eating it. He also knew that John’s slight limp wasn’t the result of an actual injury, but rather was in his head. He knew, however, that John had actually been seriously injured during his last military campaign. The Prince started suspecting that something mystical was at work here. He didn’t believe in such things. People who travelled a lot were more likely to be sceptical; he’d seen a lot in his life (including exotic animals and birds), had plenty of experience, but there had been no giants, no ghosts, no magic. The closest were probably the charlatans who’d tell you your ‘future’ for a bit of money, after pestering the hell out of you, while their even more annoying children tried to rob you after seeing where the money had come from (he’d had a good laugh when Bill had fallen prey to something like that abroad. In the redhead’s defence, he had been drunk). However, after what he’d seen earlier, he wasn’t sure what to think any longer.

     When he asked how exactly Sherlock could know all of those things about him, the man replied that he’d simply observed it, because he knew where to look and what to look for. He explained how exactly he’d gathered it all from John’s clothes, his skin, haircut, signet-ring, attitude and many other things (he described them all so quickly that John needed a bit of time to get his head round it all afterwards, because he didn’t want to miss anything). As it turned out, his brocade black with gold design doublet alone had given Sherlock plenty of information. In his life John had seen people that could be characterised as geniuses among military leaders, weaponsmiths, artists, inventors, but this… This was something else.

‘Brilliant!’ he breathed out with a smile, no longer capable of holding back.

 

     Sherlock was suddenly stunned. ‘Brilliant’, the man had called him. All of a sudden, it was hard to breathe and he had a strange desire to be closer to the Prince.

‘What is it?’ John asked, looking at him with slight worry.

‘Nothing… I just don’t hear it often’, Sherlock replied (‘Or not at all’, he added to himself). But there was something else about it, oddly familiar and forgotten. At least, that was the feeling, even though it was illogical.

‘But why?’ John frowned a bit, genuinely surprised, as if Sherlock was made to be praised and admired and there was no other way. The dark-haired man felt his heart beating faster at that.

‘I… I don’t know many people and I don’t talk to others often’, he explained. Well, it was the truth.

‘Their loss’, John said sincerely and Sherlock felt his face warming. He was blushing… It was ridiculous. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Thankfully, Archie chose this moment to enter. He froze, surprised to find a stranger in the chapel.

‘Hello…’ he murmured, hesitantly and looked at Sherlock for guidance.

‘Hello’, the blond man smiled at him, also a bit surprised by the boy’s entrance.

‘Archie, it’s fine. Nothing to be concerned about. It’s just… John’, Sherlock explained, or tried to, and nearly buried his warm face in his hands. He was ridiculous. Was it a side-effect of his anti-socialness that a few nice words had a power to affect him in such a manner? It wasn’t like him at all.

‘Nice to meet you, Archie’, John nodded. The boy eyed the stranger a bit suspiciously, but, just as suspiciously, he eyed Sherlock as well. Perfect… He was supposed to be the adult one, but here he was, embarrassing himself in front of a thirteen years old child. Archie murmured something under his nose and awkwardly shifted from one foot to another. At least, the older swan wasn’t the only one with the normal communication problems. When the boy’s eyes located John’s crossbow at the wall nearby, however, he became curious about it and it assuaged his discomfort to some extent.

     Sherlock made Archie aware that he needed some time to talk to their guest. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to deal with a look of betrayal or anything of that sort. He was exceptionally bad at dealing with hurt feelings. But the boy just shrugged and went away, probably to collect more wood for their fire, his eyes lingering on the crossbow again.

‘Your son?’ the blond enquired good-heartedly.

‘Of course, not’, Sherlock huffed. Was it not obvious? On the other hand, it probably wasn’t, for a normal person, who didn’t know anything about him and his negative opinion on starting a family of his own, even if his circumstances were entirely different. John just smiled at his reaction.

     And, of course, Pierre and Francesca chose this moment to enter the chapel with some others who, nonetheless, were staying outside, but were loud enough to be heard, as they were waiting for their two friends to be done here so they could go to their building together, as per usual. Both flock members froze, looking rather stunned by the discovery of a stranger in their lands, and in Sherlock’s domain no less. While they didn’t come to the chapel every day, unless they really needed something, tonight they’d absolutely had to, to make things even more awkward; Sherlock sighed to himself. John stood up and greeted the two of them politely, which was returned, despite the awkwardness. He didn’t voice his surprise at seeing two more people, well-groomed and dressed so nicely in the middle of nowhere.

‘Well’, Sherlock prompted the two flock members, once the greetings were over, as always not very good at common courtesy, which everyone in the flock was used to by now. He’d managed to mostly keep the irritation out of his voice, though.

‘We just wanted to enquire if you… and your… guest would care to join us for a meal. Yesterday, Robert caught some fish and we plan on cooking it tonight. There’s enough for everyone’, Francesca explained, curiously eyeing the blond man.

     They always managed to obtain more food than usual during holidays. Around something as widely celebrated as Saint John’s day, also known as summer solstice, (even though they’d celebrated it a couple of nights back), more effort was put into obtaining food. Robert and some other people had long since started making various simple tools, made of wood and stone. But, to catch fish, Robert used baskets that he’d woven from firm twigs. He put bait inside before submerging those fish traps. They were constructed so that the fish could swim into them, but couldn’t escape them. It was rather simple, but efficient; something that people, especially those who lived in villages, that had bodies of water close by, widely used.

     While they didn’t really need food as humans, getting their primary and absolutely vital sustenance as swans, they did treat themselves to fish, mushrooms, berries and other safe, edible things they could find in the forest or in the lake. The food that swans ate wasn’t in any way delicious, so, as humans, they loved having some human food now and then, but, particularly, during holidays. Sherlock rarely took part in anything like that, but the flock members were always polite enough to ask. Archie didn’t like holidays either, however, sometimes he was interested in the food, so Sherlock went with him, knowing that the boy wouldn’t go otherwise.

‘No, thank you’, he declined. ‘And, would you be so kind as to ask Jeanne-Victoire not to come here tonight with her prayers?’ She didn’t come to the chapel most nights, but, with his luck, chances were that tonight she would. He noticed John raising his eyebrow slightly, because Sherlock had answered for him as well, despite the fact that the both of them had been invited. But he had deduced that John wasn’t hungry! Unexpectedly, it made him worried that his typical lack of tact had put the new acquaintance off. The amused twitch of the blond man’s lips made Sherlock inwardly sigh in relief.

‘Will do’, Pierre nodded at his request. After that, he and Francesca took their leave politely, with John being just as nice to them before sitting back down, once they were gone.

     It was obvious he was dying to ask plenty of questions that kept piling since the moment he’d met Sherlock, but John, being a perceptive person, had refrained from asking those questions before, as if he could feel Sherlock’s discomfort and him not being ready to talk about himself. He wondered if he was making a grave mistake by trusting a man he barely knew. Ridiculous. He was trying to console himself with the fact that he was doing it partly because it was best to tell the truth before the obviously curious man started snooping about. Sherlock could’ve pretended that, if he started acting like John had overstayed his welcome, it would’ve actually made him leave and never come back, but he could tell that John was a person who’d want to investigate after encountering so many odd things at once. He was trustworthy and had strong moral principles, as Sherlock had deduced earlier, but, even so, it was none of his concern and the swan didn’t have to share anything with him or anybody else for that matter. It was his own life and tragedy. Why would he let anybody into something so personal? And yet…

‘Ask away’, he sighed. Apparently, it was the permission John had been eagerly awaiting.

‘What’s going on here? Who are those people? And who are you?’ he asked without a pause, both quickly and somewhat delicately at the same time.

‘I’m the swan you have seen earlier’, Sherlock replied just as straightforwardly. At first John opened his mouth to, very likely, accuse Sherlock of jesting and probably chuckle at that, but then he closed his mouth again, and Sherlock could vividly imagine gears turning in his head. He’d followed the swan into the chapel, but, once he’d entered, the swan had been nowhere to be seen, and still wasn’t; there was a human instead. And, of course, there had been the crown, similar to the coronet the human wore. Sherlock knew he was thinking something along those lines. He could’ve pointed out that there was much more evidence than that, but refrained. It was hardly the best time to show off his skills.

‘All right’, John nodded, obviously open for more information. Not even remotely a trusting or naïve person, he liked to be well-informed to form his own opinions.

     Sherlock stood up and turned away; it was easier like that. As soon as he opened his mouth after about a minute of silence and a shaky inhalation, he started from the day he had been kidnapped and torn away from his family, and couldn’t stop, until he told the whole story, or, at least, most of it. He was never once interrupted. A sceptic like John could’ve been less patient with him, but he was quiet the whole time. When Sherlock turned back to him and sat back down, he risked looking at the man’s face. What he could see was thoughtfulness, compassion, a small amount of fascination and disbelief. The latter was a perfectly normal reaction to a story like this, so Sherlock wasn’t going to hold it against him.

‘Is… Is there anything I can do to help you?’ he finally asked.

‘As I’ve mentioned, my brother is a very influential person. If anything could be done, he would have done it a long time ago’. From time to time, Sherlock couldn’t help doubting it, but it was his petulant, abandoned part speaking, ignoring the facts. He **was** angry with Mycroft, but he also knew it wasn’t really deserved. Again, he had to remind himself that some swans in the flock had influential and loving relatives, but nobody had come to free them either.

‘That Moriarty… If someone found and dealt with the depraved git, would that help?’

‘That’s unlikely. Again, if it was that simple, Mycroft would’ve done it. He’s got very capable people at his disposal’, Sherlock sighed. John’s eagerness to 'deal with the baddie' and 'free the innocent captives', however, was heart-warming. He suddenly found it thrilling and breathtaking to imagine somebody finding quick, cold, merciless execution from this man’s hand on Sherlock’s behalf. Heroic, with strong moral principles… his hand would have been completely steady if he ever got a chance to eliminate the sorcerer. Alas, no one knew (except for Mycroft, perhaps) what would happen if Moriarty died. Was it even possible, considering the fact he wasn’t ageing? And if he died, would it bring any positive difference? Or would his creations, which the swans were, die with him? There was no point in daydreaming or allowing himself to become a hostage of vain hopes. ‘There’s nothing you can do’, he shook his head.

‘I’m sorry’, John replied sincerely. He wanted to say something else, but refrained.

‘What?’ Sherlock demanded curiously.

‘Would you mind me seeing you changing?’ the blond man asked and bit his lip slightly. ‘It’s fine if you do mind; I'm not going to insist. It’s all fine’, he added hastily. Sherlock was equally stupefied by another sudden bout of déjà vu at those words and by the request itself. Would he be comfortable with anything like that? He’d feel vulnerable for a few minutes after the transformation, not to mention that he was generally more vulnerable as a swan, no matter how strong those birds could be. But, in the end, he chose to agree. John had already seen him as a swan anyway.

‘You may see me changing. But you have to promise me something’.

‘What do you want me to promise?’

‘Keep us secret. Keep this place secret. Don’t tell anyone. You’ll want to share this experience or try to involve someone, thinking they’d be able to help somehow. Don’t do that. If there was a way for us to escape, Mycroft or somebody else would’ve already discovered it. If you involve other people, even those you trust, rumours will spread. Crowds of people will start coming here to gawk. There can always be someone with bad intentions, or someone who’d find a way to make a profit out of us. I don’t want to become a spectacle. I don’t want any intruders. I don’t want to lose what little I have…’ Sherlock knew he had to stop, realising that both his words and his breathing were becoming too fast with anxiety.

‘Of course’, John immediately promised, interrupting him. ‘I promise. I understand’. Neither his tone, nor his expression gave away anything that could possibly make Sherlock doubt his words, so he found himself relaxing.

     After that, the atmosphere itself became more relaxed. John started talking about some world events Sherlock had missed. But he was much more interested in hearing about John’s adventures abroad. At some point, Archie had joined them to listen as well after he’d come back with a bundle of thick sticks and twigs to add into the fire, even though they still had a small supply left. They almost had enough for the next night. Seeing that Sherlock felt more relaxed in the presence of John, the boy seemed more at ease now as well. He seemed quite interested in learning more about John’s killings during his military campaigns, but still wasn’t comfortable enough to voice his demands for that kind of stories from this new person. Sherlock shook off the renewed feeling of déjà vu and focussed on John instead.

     Time went fast and Sherlock nearly forgot to remind Archie when it was time for him to return to the lake before he transformed.

‘May I come here again?’ John suddenly asked when the boy had left.

‘Yes. When?’ Sherlock asked immediately, and immediately chastised himself for sounding so needy. He did want John to come back. He only didn’t want him to bring anyone else, but John himself was an entirely different matter. He was welcome.

‘Tomorrow at midnight?’ the blond man said, asking for permission.

‘Fine’, Sherlock agreed.

     He warned John when he knew he was about to start changing. It was a slightly odd experience to have in front of another person. Once he was in his swan form and the dizziness had abated, he focused his, now sharper, eyes on the blond man. There was both worry and awe on John’s face. Sherlock wished he could still talk to him.

     John followed when the swan started moving to the exit. His wide field of vision allowed him to see the following man without really turning his head, and he did feel like looking at John; there was a possibility of noticing things about him that his human eyes could’ve missed. The blond nearly ended up forgetting his crossbow, but, once he picked it up, he was quick to use the decorated leather strap attached to it, to put it on himself so that the crossbow was hanging against his back. Sherlock knew it wouldn’t have been used it to harm him, but he still appreciated John’s thoughtful gesture.

‘Well, I suppose this is where we part our ways’, John said when they were outside. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow. Take care. And thank you for your trust’. It was obvious that the man wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about leaving, but he knew he had to.

‘See you, John’, Sherlock said. But he knew John could only hear a soft, melodious sound of a black swan. John nodded, nonetheless, and headed in nearly the same direction he had come from. Hopefully, he’d be able to avoid the hounds and quickly find his way back to his companions. Sherlock himself took off from his usual spot that had enough room for a swan’s take-off run. In passing, he saw John turning and looking at him, obviously attracted by the flapping of wings.

 

     John managed to get to the camp safely, even though it had taken a bit longer to find than he’d expected, which could be partially blamed on his thoughts, constantly wandering back to all the incredible things that had happened to him in the course of the last few hours. Luckily, he’d still managed to keep himself out of danger, his hands never let go of the crossbow.

     Unsurprisingly, his companions were already up and searching for him.

‘John, where have you been?’ Bill exclaimed upon seeing him.

‘Nowhere… I just woke up early and decided to take a walk’, he replied. He wasn’t really lying, so he didn’t feel bad. He would have been happy to share what had really happened to him with his friends, but he had a promise to keep. They knew better than to chastise him for wandering away like that. While he was a prince, he was not the kind of prince that needed looking after.

     The rest of their hunting trip was moderately successful, but John doubted his contribution was in any way significant, as his thoughts kept coming back to that strange place in the forest, where people lived most of their lives as swans.

     It was almost a relief when they finally mounted their horses to head back to the castle, where he allowed himself a few hours of sleep. Instead of flying arrows and dying men, he dreamt about the tranquillity of a forest lake.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are several things I would like you to know about the story, this chapter in particular:
> 
> 1\. In the ballet the Prince has a tutor named Wolfgang. I really like the character, but I couldn't include anyone like him in the story, simply because John is too old for having a tutor, so I thought it would be odd. I decided to include Mike Stamford, instead, who's John's good friend and someone who shares (or, at least, used to share) his interest in studying medicine.
> 
> 2\. In the ballet Prince Siegfried has a loyal best friend, named Benno. I decided that Bill Murray makes a perfect 'Benno' for Prince John.
> 
> 3\. The ballet starts with the Prince's coming of age (in some sources it's his 21st birthday). I decided to make it St John's day in this story, instead, because I wasn't sure John would be in such a great mood about his birthday. Plus, it would've been odd for him to celebrate it with peasants in a foreign country (in the ballet the peasants are Prince Siegfried's own countrymen and he has no problem having a party with them).
> 
> 4\. You must have noticed that I deliberately refuse to name John and Mrs Hudson's home country, which they rule. At first, I planned it to be Scotland, but, while this story is, basically, a fairy tale and historical accuracy doesn't matter, I still thought that those who are well-versed in Scottish history would find it odd, because Scotland was in an entirely different situation at that time. I didn't want it to get in your way. So, let's pretend there was another country on the British Isles back then. Imagine that some good part of Northumbria still existed independently from England and Scotland in Renaissance period (ridiculous, but passable for a fictional story, I think).
> 
> 5\. When Sherlock was kidnapped and taken to Bavaria by Moriarty, Bavaria consisted of several parts. Sometime during Sherlock's life as a swan (some years before he met John) the parts were reunited, so now it has one duke. It's not important for the story; I just thought I should mention it for some more realistic world-building.
> 
> 6\. In this story Greg is just 'Lestrade', and I think you know why. ;)
> 
> Again, for those who have never seen the ballet, but would love to, I recommend to watch this filmed version: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9rJoB7y6Ncs>


	5. Tempo Di Valse

     Sherlock was nervous. He’d barely rested the entire day, wondering if John was going to visit again. Unthinkable… They’d known each other for mere hours, even though Sherlock felt like he’d known him for years, without having any memories of it, and it had nothing to do with his deductions, at least conscious ones. But seeing John was something he really wanted to experience again.

     The flock members were curious and had questions; they, however, were aware by now when it was best to leave him alone. Archie was never far away from him, but he kept quiet as well, even though he was curious, too. Sherlock was grateful for his silent presence.

     He left for the chapel at the same time as he always did. His, once broken, wing was a bit achy today, which meant his arm, too, was going to cause him some discomfort. He couldn’t wait for the landing and was generally irritated; with both his wing and himself. He landed, once he had got over the threshold of the building and, finally, folded his wings to let the aching one rest against his body. And then he nearly gasped, because somebody was already inside. He’d been so distracted that he’d missed all the signs of someone’s presence there. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for him to recognise John in the dark. Immediately, his irritation was gone, as he was watching John starting the fire, which soon was starting to fill the chapel with its warm glow.

‘John…’ The soft crooning noise made the blond man turn, even though he had definitely noticed, or rather heard, the swan earlier.

‘Hello’, the man smiled. ‘Am I early?’

‘No’. Another soft croon.

‘If you don’t want me to watch you changing, I could go take a walk’, the guest suggested. Sherlock hoped that his next croon sounded like a negative answer. He wasn’t, indeed, very comfortable with it, but he was even less comfortable with John leaving, even if it was just for a while. He took time looking around and deducing John. Even though it didn’t matter any longer, he was thoughtful enough to, once more, leave the crossbow at the entrance. It was resting against the wall, this time together with the quiver full of bolts. Obviously, John’s way here had been safe and he hadn’t encountered any danger, which both was and wasn’t good, because Sherlock knew that the man was only happy to have at least a brief, dangerous adventure. John’s, more or less simple, but still good quality clothes were making it clear that the man hadn’t wanted to attract much of attention on his way here. The colours were all dark or neutral and there were barely any decorations. He, actually, preferred it to attires that identified him as a royal person. He felt more relaxed like this. The night earlier he hadn’t been wearing anything regal or particularly decorated either. He had been on a hunt, after all. Yet, good, but simpler clothes, obviously, felt more like a second skin to him.

     His musings and his scrutiny of John nearly made him miss the moment he started transforming.

     When everything was over, he opened his eyes and realised that he was lying on his side. John’s concerned face was above him, and Sherlock was a tiny bit startled at first, but it didn’t last. He allowed John’s experienced fingers to find the pulse point on his neck. After measuring his pulse, the man took a look at his pupils.

‘I’m fine’, Sherlock assured, sitting up.

‘Is it like this every time?’

‘Yes. But it was much worse in the beginning’, he replied. Noticing the Prince’s interest at this, he told him what exactly he’d been experiencing, how much scarier it had been at first and why.

‘Does it hurt?’ the guest asked carefully, worried.

‘Not much. There’s more discomfort and disorientation than pain’.

‘I see… Let me help you up’, the shorter man said, standing up. Sherlock hesitantly took the offered, warm and reliable, hand. Immediately, his senses screamed that he knew the feeling; he’d experienced it before. It made no sense, like many other things. John helped him up and then helped him to one of the large stones with a flat surface near the fire. The younger man sat down, struggling with the leftovers of the usual post-transformation dizziness.

‘Better?’ John asked, sitting down as well.

‘Yes. My arm is still in some discomfort, but it has been like this the entire evening. It’s not anything new’.

‘Your arm? The one that has been broken?’

‘Yes’.

‘I understand. My shoulder starts playing up sometimes. Just an old wound’, John said sympathetically.

‘Your sh-shoulder?’ Another sudden spell of dizziness made Sherlock close his eyes. He hadn’t managed to deduce it before. He’d rather thought John had had something wrong with his leg, even though something hadn’t felt right about that observation, but now it was like some pieces were coming together. It almost felt like John was **supposed** to have his shoulder scarred. Was it some sort of unconscious deduction again?

‘Uh-huh. There’s been an arrow stuck deep inside. I thought my arm would have to be amputated, due to infection, but I was lucky to both survive and keep my arm’, the Prince explained. Of course, he’d been shot…

‘The… left one?’

‘Yes’, John confirmed with a small smile, probably thinking that Sherlock was deducing again. He both was and wasn’t. He just **knew** it was the left one. If the years spent in a body he hadn’t been born with had damaged his mind, he wouldn’t be surprised. Or, perhaps, it had started even earlier in his life. He still remembered his reaction to the vielle and Mycroft…

‘Sherlock?’ He was brought back out of his thoughts by John’s voice. ‘You seemed so far away. Are you sure you’re feeling better now?’

‘I’m sure’, he promised. ‘It happens sometimes’.

‘It must be overwhelming to have a mind as great as yours’. The Prince’s smile and praise made Sherlock’s breath hitch in his chest. His face and neck were getting warmer.

 

     John started visiting most nights and spent at least two hours out of four hours Sherlock had as a human, sometimes even longer than that. It was never enough. As always, the swan busied himself with conducting experiments, playing the violin and spending time with Archie. Those occupations by no means were tiresome or only resorted to to kill time. And, yet, he missed the Prince. What was more, when John was by his side, the genius, but, at times, chaotic mind seemed to start becoming more organised, his deductions were akin to a well-built carriage with wheels moving down the dry, even road with ease. Sometimes the Prince challenged him, offering to deduce this or that. Even the experiments seemed somewhat more successful in John’s presence. The man was a true inspiration. Sherlock made deductions and John praised and admired him. The younger man was getting used to the unexplainable, regular feeling of déjà vu. He was trying to solve the mystery of why he felt that way. He thought about it, observed, but nothing could explain it. If it was just a mental issue, there was nothing he could do, so it was probably best not to dwell on it too much. It just didn’t make sense that John, being a new person in his life, felt so familiar and special, felt both like the comfort and warmth of a home and the thrill of an adventure. He was like someone from a long-forgotten dream. Sherlock was drawn to him inexorably.                

     When he first played the violin for John as his appreciative audience, there was one thing he knew deep inside in all certainty: he’d already played for this man before, many times perhaps, in another life, even though he didn’t believe in such nonsensical concepts. The look in John’s eyes, when he followed every move of the bow, of Sherlock’s fingers, or the way he closed his stormy-blue eyes to let the music envelop him, felt like tracing a habitual, distinctly engraved pattern.

 

     Soon after starting to visit, John started bringing various things with him every night. Sometimes he brought books for Sherlock or, quite often, some sweets for Archie, who happily gorged himself on them. One day he brought a new stack of paper, as Sherlock had run out of the supply he'd used to make notes about his experiments, briefly and in small letters, barely leaving any clear space on them to make the supply last as long as possible, even though he kept most of his observations in his head anyway. The Prince brought some other useful things, as well as things Sherlock specifically requested if John had access to them. On his own accord, he brought two ornate, wooden stools to use for sitting, as a replacement for those uncomfortable stones. He even managed to bring a medium-sized barrel of ale for the flock one night. They were ecstatic.

     Some days at the lake, Sherlock heard them gossiping. Some ladies thought John was interesting and confessed that they wouldn’t have minded to have an opportunity to know him better, apparently only stopped by the fact that he was Sherlock’s guest, and the chapel was a place where not many and not often were welcome. He couldn’t help ruffling up his feathers in silent anger. John was **his** guest, not theirs. He desperately hoped it wouldn’t change. He didn’t want to share…

     Sarah seemed particularly interested. When one night John was invited into the flock’s building and accepted the invitation, thinking it wasn’t polite to refuse, she even started flirting with him. It wasn’t a stupid flirt with eyelash-batting and lip-pursing; she actually engaged him in a conversation. What of physical expressions, all the humans turned into swans had the same common trait about them: when they were swans, to see what was in front of them clearly, they had to turn their heads to the side, at least a little bit, due to the placement of their eyes, and, in their human bodies, they sometimes did it purely out of habit, without meaning to. It could be mistaken for some sort of mild flirting. John, however, seemed used to it, because he’d seen both Sherlock and Archie doing it every now and then, so it didn’t affect him in any way. Sherlock felt ridiculous even thinking about anything like that. Yet, he made sure to stand between Sarah and **his** guest, as often as possible. Eventually, she just gave up on her attempts. It was clear that John was potentially interested in her, and he, undoubtedly, liked their conversations, especially if the topic was related to medicine, but he seemed more interested in spending time in the chapel. The Prince hardly ever interacted with the flock, to Sherlock’s relief. Whatever there could have been between John and Sarah, ended before it had even begun.

 

     John believed it wasn’t nearly enough to just bring Sherlock things he could use. He, obviously, wanted to do more, so, one night, he asked if there was anything else he could help the younger man with, even offering to secretly send a messenger with a letter for his family. Sherlock reminded him that his parents believed he was dead and, logically, it was better if they never started doubting it. But the idea of sending a letter to Mycroft had been planted into his mind since that conversation with John. For days, he couldn’t decide on anything. He wouldn’t mind summoning his brother to demand explanations, to demand him to share everything he knew, even though there was likely (or definitely) no hope for Sherlock. Last time they had seen each other, Sherlock had been too emotional and couldn’t talk for a human to understand. If only Mycroft visited again… But he hadn’t, and it spoke for itself. He must have moved on long ago, so was there any point in trying anything that, quite possibly, wouldn’t bring any result at all? It would’ve been inevitable for Sherlock to have a tiny, treacherous hope that would be almost inevitably shattered.

     Still, he decided that the endeavour would’ve hardly made things any worse for him. He tried to compose a letter, but, at this point, he didn’t know what to write, exactly.

‘I could just invite him to the castle and talk to him in person’, John suggested when Sherlock shared some of his thoughts with him.

‘Fine’, the younger man agreed quietly, trying his best to smother any sort of hope before it had grown roots. John wasn’t stupid. He knew not to pester Sherlock with more questions the swan was ready to answer. It was a delicate topic. Sherlock was prone to using many unflattering words during those rare times he talked about his brother, but John could definitely see that there was more to it.

     The very next night he informed Sherlock that the message had been sent. Sherlock just nodded, feeling a lump in his throat and not trusting himself to speak. It would take a while for the message to be delivered, and Sherlock would have to force himself to avoid thinking about it, to the best of his ability.

 

     John allowed the royal tailor to take his time, making sure the two-months old measurements hadn’t changed, so that he could start the Prince’s new attire for the ball. The tailor asked plenty of questions, such as whether John preferred this type of embroidery or that, showing him the samples, whether he preferred this type of sleeves or that. After a dozen of such questions, John just told the other man that he trusted his taste. There were just a little more than three weeks left before the ball he’d been avoiding thinking about. It meant that he didn’t have much time left in Bavaria, because less than a couple of weeks afterwards he’d be going back home.

     He’d started writing in his journal again. The Prince hadn’t been writing since his last military campaign, but now he was inspired to start pouring his secret thoughts out again, not to mention, he had something interesting and incredible to write about. Hiding his journal safely, was a usual practice for him, but, even if anybody ever found it, he could always tell them he was trying himself at writing a fictional story, and give them hell for going through his personal things, to boot.

     His friends were suspicious of his recent behaviour, because he was often pensive and distracted. Bill believed that John had decided to enjoy some freedom with a woman, whom he kept secret and visited at nights, which was the reason he slept until afternoons. Bill was totally supportive of it, of course, even though he didn’t have any of his questions answered about the ‘mysterious woman’. John would’ve been happy to share the truth, but a promise was a promise, and he was a man of his word. His heart made him want to spend more time with his new secret friend, but, when he looked at Queen Martha, he saw how unfair it was towards her to keep evading his responsibilities. He had to accept his duties for her sake and for the sake of the country; it was long overdue, in fact.

     And thus, deep inside, he was torn, despite the fact that everything had already been decided. Perhaps, he’d be able to come to Bavaria every year and see Sherlock. Would those occasional visits be fair to the both of them and their friendship at all? There were so many things separating them. Sherlock, of course, was aware that John would have to leave at some point, but they avoided talking about it. The avoidance of the topic was mutual. Leaving was going to be tremendously hard, but he was determined to do anything in his power to help Sherlock in any way possible, even if it wasn’t going to be much in the end.

     He wondered if his message to Mycroft Holmes would make any difference. If not, he was determined to pay him a visit in England, once he left Bavaria. In addition, he started carefully asking around if anybody knew anyone by the name of Moriarty. He made sure to keep his small investigation quiet. In Bavaria, nobody he’d asked was familiar with the name. But his further research revealed that there was a noble family in Ireland with that name. He doubted that that particular Moriarty, sorcerer on not, would fly this far away from home every time he wanted to see his collection of human swans. Wouldn’t it be more convenient to organise something like that a little closer to one’s home? Once this fucking ball was over and done with, and John was back to the British Isles, he’d check that Irish family and everyone related to them, just in case. Still, he had a feeling that, even if the sorcerer was a member of that particular family, he lived somewhere nearby: in Bavaria or in a neighbouring duchy. What if he could be negotiated with? What if John could offer something in return for Sherlock’s freedom? If he managed to find Moriarty, he would try every available option (though killing him was a more preferable one, in John’s opinion). He was going to keep searching.

     Now that he’d met and befriended Sherlock, which was an adventure on its own, he was even less thrilled about the ball than he had been the day he’d learned about it. It just seemed particularly ill-timed at the moment.

     When the Queen asked him whether he was getting ready to the ball and how it was going, he just shrugged absent-mindedly and replied that everything was being prepared without him anyway and there was no point or need for his participation. She seemed a little upset by his reaction, not his words, as she knew he could be quite bad-tempered at times, but by his mood in general. Bill was a little worried as well, but he knew well enough when John shouldn’t be bothered, even with good intentions.

     This night, frustrated and angry, John hunted down and killed two monstrous hounds before going to the chapel to wait for Sherlock, as he did most nights. Somewhere deep inside, he’d hoped his actions would somehow summon Moriarty, since John had been destroying his property. In any case, he felt a bit better after venting his anger on the thrice-cursed creatures. And, of course, Sherlock deduced all of it soon after flying into the chapel. Once he transformed and recovered from it, John could see the younger man’s lips twitching in an approving smile. It lifted the Prince’s spirits a bit more. At the same time, it told him how much he wasn’t ready to leave his martial past behind, despite the life-changing injury.

 

     Being a swan for nearly twenty hours per day, had become emotionally harder than before. Sherlock spent his days looking forward to John’s visits. It felt like he was just going through the motions the rest of the time.

     With John, however, everything was better. One of the books the Prince had given him was on the recent history. It described many political events, which wasn’t something Sherlock usually found interesting, but he wanted to be informed, regardless. To his delight, the book described the ‘possible’ murder of a Spanish nobleman, which was something that had caused a lot of speculations, but, eventually, had been laid to rest, sometime after the man’s body had got the same treatment. Illness was proclaimed an official cause of death, but the described symptoms of the supposed illness and the way he had died, told Sherlock what poison had been used, and he had some ideas on where it could have been obtained by the man’s ‘loving and grieving’ son, returned from a journey a couple of months prior to his father’s death, according to the book that mentioned it briefly. There wasn’t enough data, but there were a few more small clues in the text that pointed in the direction of the murdered man’s son. He shared it with John, who lavishly praised him and, together, they wrote a letter with Sherlock’s detailed observations to a man, whom the book described as one of the investigators of that particular murder. From what little information Sherlock had, he’d come to a conclusion that that man was less stupid than his colleagues. Sherlock didn’t outright accuse the nobleman’s son, but he gave detailed instructions on what to look for to confirm his guilt (or disprove, which, in this case, was highly unlikely).

     John was always generous with his words of praise and encouragement. _‘Amazing!’, ‘It was extraordinary’._

 

     And, one day, it finally dawned on Sherlock… He was in love. It felt natural, as if it had always been there, yet special and overpowering. It wasn’t like him to feel this way, but it was about John… With John everything was different. John **was** everything. With that realisation, another one came like a bolt from the blue: Sherlock’s situation had changed with the appearance of John in his life more than he’d expected, more than he would’ve ever imagined. It just came to him, akin to an instinct, a sudden, secret knowledge, connected to the spell he was under. He was doomed if somebody he fell in love with didn’t feel the same and swore his or her love to someone else. He’d received the secret knowledge of how the spell worked and what was going to happen to him now. He couldn’t believe it wasn’t some sort of a cruel joke. If a person, who had his love, chose him, Sherlock, and swore to love him and share his or her life with him, the spell would be broken and Sherlock would be free to go with that person and would never turn into a swan again, entirely free of the curse. They’d be bound together by that sacred vow and there was no way around it. But, if he or she promised someone else to share their life with, instead, Sherlock would spend the rest of his days in the body of a swan, unable to turn into a human ever again, not even for a few hours. He would soon go feral, gradually, yet rapidly, losing his human intelligence and personality. That was how it worked.

     The discovery was shocking and made him physically ill. He was doomed… He would’ve rather spent the rest of his days the way things were now than was put into this sort of position when he was constantly aware that the Damoclean sword was hanging over his head and his time was running out like water out of a damaged vessel. He wasn’t given any choice though.

     Apparently, his state was very obvious, because that night John gave him concerned looks time and again.

‘Sherlock, are you all right? What is it?’ the Prince, finally, asked.

‘Nothing. I’m fine. I… Could you stay a little longer tonight, until I transform?’ Sherlock nearly whispered, never meeting his guest’s eyes.

‘Of course. Are you sure nothing is wrong? You look ashen…’ John touched his forehead and Sherlock found himself helplessly leaning into the touch.

 

     He couldn’t help thinking that, if their situation was different, they could’ve had plenty of adventures together; it could’ve been an interesting life. The world out there had a lot of mysteries they would’ve been able to enjoy solving together. Sherlock would’ve tried his best to provide all the thrill and danger John, obviously, loved.

     What was he even thinking? Even though they were just friends, John did like Sherlock and even found him good-looking and aesthetically pleasing, that much was clear, but he was into women and liking Sherlock didn’t change that fact. Even if he chose Sherlock and gave him his heart, metaphorically speaking, what would he have even done with him? John preferred women and Sherlock had no preferences at all, not to mention carnal things weren’t normally interesting to him, weren’t his forte, most definitely. He would’ve willingly surrendered himself to John, though. He imagined John taking him the way he took women, penetrating him, perhaps even spilling his seed into him, because there was no risk of an unwanted pregnancy; he wouldn’t have had to be careful. Maybe, from behind, John would’ve been able to pretend he was taking a woman.

     Sherlock would’ve allowed him. He could even see some appeal in it. Perhaps, he wouldn’t have been able to enjoy it like many people did, but he’d have enjoyed John’s closeness, his warmth, his touch. He would’ve enjoyed the knowledge that John was able to take pleasure from him, that his ‘transport’ was desired and taken pleasure from. Sherlock, actually, couldn’t rule out having a very physical reaction to that sort of stimuli; it was obvious John was a giving lover. In addition, Sherlock’s feelings for him could’ve contributed to it.

     Those were just empty, useless dreams, though.

     Even if John was interested in anything like that, he had life and duties he could not and would not abandon. Starting a new royal dynasty, having a normal royal family with heirs, ruling a country, fulfilling people’s hopes, especially the hopes of his entourage, people he cared about… There was a lot of work ahead of him. Choosing Sherlock, whom he hadn’t really known that long, would’ve meant leaving **everything**. How could Sherlock make him choose, even if the Prince ever developed similar feelings for him? No, Sherlock couldn’t make John abandon his life for him. He didn’t want John to end up regretting anything or feeling like he’d been used just to break the spell. At the same time, if he told him the truth, if he confessed that his, Sherlock’s, life depended on him now, John, honourable, caring, chivalrous John, would’ve felt obligated to save him and do whatever it took. There was also a small possibility the Prince would’ve been secretly disappointed in him for putting him into that kind of situation, because he would’ve had to abandon everything he had known, including his country, to be with someone who depended on him to the point they couldn’t live without him. It was very much like an emotional blackmail he just couldn’t stoop to. He knew he could use that tactics, even with John sometimes, without much guilt, but only when it came to something small and rather insignificant on a larger scale; **this** , however, wasn’t, by any means, small. John deserved better. And, even if Sherlock resorted to that course of action, as his last hope, the triumph of freedom would’ve been short-living if John started hating him, sooner or later, because he would’ve been stuck with him, trapped with a manipulator, after giving up everything for him.

     That meant he probably didn’t have much time left.

     The way the members of the flock looked at him now… Somehow, they knew. They knew what was going on. There was no more gossip like there had been before Sherlock’s sudden enlightenment. He never caught a whiff of anybody discussing John or himself again. They knew.

 

     Everything had changed, but he went on as before, waiting for John’s visits impatiently, every time. He was supposed to start preparing himself to letting John go, yet he was imbued with an acute fear of abandonment. When one night the Prince was about an hour late, Sherlock was beside himself, trying his best not to let it show and, likely, failing. He couldn’t put his mind to anything, even in the middle of his current experiment. John had promised to visit tonight, but it was an hour and a half after Sherlock’s transformation, and the much wanted guest still hadn’t appeared.

     At some point, he got angry for a few moments, at himself, at John, at everything. Sooner or later, he’d lose himself and his personality forever, so couldn’t he, at least, enjoy John’s company a little longer before it happened?! And why did he bother conducting all these useless experiments?! What was the purpose of all of this?!

     When the anger was gone, there was just exhaustion left. He hoped nothing bad had happened to John. Other than that, it would’ve probably been for the best if his beloved friend lost interest and stopped visiting. Archie’s brown eyes followed him worriedly, and Sherlock knew he was being obvious.

     And then, the familiar footsteps made Sherlock move towards the entrance, his legs moving on their own accord.

‘John!’ he exclaimed. The blond man was immediately concerned. Sherlock must have looked terrible.

‘What is it?’ he asked quickly and moved closer, taking the younger man’s elbows in his hands, while Sherlock’s pale ones grabbed his guest’s upper arms in return, like a lifeline.

‘I thought you wouldn’t come’. He was a desperate embarrassment, even though he did try to keep his voice even. Why did he even bother trying?

‘Of course, I would. I promised, did I not? My apologies for being late, though. I had to urgently write a letter to one of our advisers and send it with a messenger. Nothing too serious, but it still had to be done tonight’, the Prince explained. Of course… This close to the entrance the bright light of the fire didn’t reach enough to be sufficient, but now Sherlock could see some ink stains on John’s fingers and a tiny amount of wax used for sealing messages on his thumb; and his clothes had small signs of being put on in haste before he had headed here. Obviously, Sherlock had become needy and importunate. How pathetic was that?

     Fortunately for him, after that everything went rather well; or at least as well as possible, considering the situation the Prince was not aware of. Concerned by Sherlock’s reaction to him being late, he seemed to have started coming to the chapel a little earlier than before, though it was hard to tell whether it was conscious or not.

 

     A few nights later, however, The Prince’s visit turned into an absolute fiasco.

     John could tell that to Sherlock it was obvious that he wanted to talk from the moment the swan first saw him upon entering the chapel. To John it was obvious that the younger man didn’t like it, but he couldn’t very well confront the Prince about it beforehand, without raising even more suspicions, which was counterproductive, because it was raising suspicions on itself. John was postponing the talk, even some time after the swan’s transformation into the human. For the conversation to happen they needed to be alone. As always, Archie was easy to bribe with sweets and another opportunity to shoot a few bolts from the guest’s crossbow. John had noticed the boy’s interest and had given him a few lessons on how to wield a crossbow. He gave it to the boy sometimes to fool about outside, and even helped to build a target for the practice. He did it all on condition that Archie would be careful and would never aim at anyone as a joke. Accidents could easily cost a life to people that couldn’t even leave the place to get a proper help or medical supplies (it was probably a good idea to provide them with the latter next time he visited). John had promised that, if Archie didn’t lose interest after some time, he would present him with a crossbow of his own, probably something smaller and lighter, yet no less durable. While Archie was taciturn with John (or probably with everyone else, except for Sherlock, to some extent, at least), the promise had livened the reticent child up.

     Sherlock was tense, but John could no longer wait.

‘Sherlock… I know something is wrong. Something has changed. I’m aware that you aren’t people person, but I haven’t seen you this quiet and withdrawn until recently. If you could just tell me…’

‘There’s nothing to tell’, the younger man interrupted. ‘You barely know me. I’m prone to such moods’.

‘I just thought that, perhaps, Moriarty is bothering you again’.

‘No. I haven’t seen him for a while’.

‘Then what is it? I know there’s something. You look like you’re not feeling well. If it is an ailment…’

‘No’, Sherlock interrupted again. ‘There’s no ailment either’. He was conducting another one of his experiments (or, possibly, pretended to be very busy with it, never even looking at his interlocutor the whole time) and was currently holding a vial with something that was probably some plant’s juice, but his hands were shaking slightly, so it seemed like he was about to spill some of it. John took his wrist in his hand and gently lowered his hand so that it lay on the altar, making him put the vial down.

‘Then what? Sherlock, please, look at me’.

‘It’s nothing. I’ve just told you I’m prone to it. Why do you have to be so persistent?’

‘I worry’.

‘Then don’t’, the younger man almost whispered. Only now, John noticed that he was caressing the back of the pale hand with his thumb, still holding the thin wrist. Perhaps, it was the reason Sherlock shivered and his rapid pulse was palpable.

‘It pains me to see you so unhappy’, John confessed.

‘You’re perfectly aware that I don’t have many reasons to be happy’. It was barely audible and Sherlock still avoided looking him in the eye.

‘I’m so sorry that I cannot be more helpful. I wish I could do more for you than just bring you all those useless things’. He knew he sounded a little frustrated now.

‘They are not useless. I’m glad you’ve brought them. I’d never thought I’d meet someone from out there’.

‘I wish I could take you with me’.

‘So do I’, Sherlock whispered. He sounded pained and, suddenly, looked smaller than he was, paler than he usually was, meeker. John couldn’t help it, he turned the taller man to face him and embraced him with both arms, sharing his warmth, care and sympathy. There was a small sob from the younger man, and the Prince tightened his arms round him. And then his lips were on the pale neck above the white, lace collar, sticking out from under the collar of the black, snug-fitting velvet jacket. The spikey, but soft, lace brushed against the corner of his mouth and his cheek. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning up and kissing the full, soft lips. Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose and went limp in his arms, letting him do whatever he wanted to do. It was passionate and heartfelt, and very intimate. But, apparently, as soon as the realisation struck, he started squirming in John’s arms, breaking the kiss abruptly. The Prince’s heart fell, as he, too, realised, what he had just done. Sherlock quickly pushed himself away from him, rather than pushed John away from himself. His eyes were full of panic. Appalled, he tried to say something, but nothing came out. He gave up on trying, turned brusquely and headed to the exit, his gait fast and determined. It took John a few seconds to react before he followed.

     Oh, God, what had he done?..

‘Sherlock! Sherlock, wait! I’m sorry!’ he pleaded. Sherlock didn’t stop, didn’t look back. The thought that he should’ve probably left the younger man alone now, at least for a short while, slowed John down a little, but then he regained his pace, too worried to just leave everything like this.

     Sherlock tried to escape him in the forest, but John kept following, until the younger man hid behind a large oak tree, finally stopping. John allowed him some space, not walking round the tree to face him.

‘Sherlock, please…’ he murmured softly.

‘Please, just leave’, was a pained whisper from behind the tree. It wasn’t hard to imagine that Sherlock was trying his best to sound firm, and, to a certain extent, he’d succeeded, failing to avoid sounding distraught, at the same time, nonetheless. There was nothing John could say at that. It seemed, he had ruined everything, but couldn’t believe things had deteriorated and gone downhill so suddenly.

     Slowly and hesitantly, he turned to leave. A few times, he looked back, as he was walking away, in case Sherlock needed a convenient excuse to change his mind and forgive John, but the younger man never emerged from behind the tree.

     Dispirited, the Prince went back to the castle.

 

     Sherlock had doomed himself, this time he definitely had… John had kissed him and Sherlock had panicked like an absolute idiot. And now that John was gone, Sherlock was having a full-blown panic attack, to the point that his conscious mind turned off for a while. Later, he found himself sitting on the ground with his back against the tree. He willed his breathing to come back to at least almost normal. With that, the recollections of what had happened earlier came back fully.

     He had been so close to telling John the truth and, possibly, changing his whole situation, his future, everything. But it was impossible. He had to go back to reality. He’d thought about it enough in the past and he couldn’t back down now. John’s touch, **his kiss** , had clouded Sherlock’s judgement and he had allowed himself to hope; stupidly. Again, John had his kingdom to rule, his line to become successful, his duties, his friends and people he saw as family; their hopes to fulfil. It mattered to John. Sherlock couldn’t use him for his own advantage. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to see John eventually regretting it. Even if he never regretted saving Sherlock’s life (again, he was too honourable to regret something like that), he’d still think about everything he’d lost, possibly believing he’d made the right choice, but also hating being put into a situation where he couldn’t refuse and there was no compromise. He would’ve hated being trapped and caged like that for the rest of his days.

     Sherlock had been through all of these thoughts many times before, yet, he had to remind himself of the simple facts once more. It was the reality he had to stick to, instead of indulging himself into pointless fantasies of what could never be. The kiss had affected him greatly, thrown him off his already poor balance; it had weakened his determination, making everything even more complicated.

     Did any of it even matter now that John had left? And, for the umpteenth time, there was an intense episode of déjà vu, as if the loss of John had already happened before. Perhaps, it wasn’t that bad to just stop existing as a person if he had mental problems that were getting worse, at any rate? His own resignation was frightening.

     When he deemed himself capable of standing up, he realised that there wasn’t much time he had before the transformation. When he went back to the chapel to gather his belongings into the chest, as always, and lock them up, he was met by Archie’s worried eyes. The boy seemed worried pretty often as of late. Just like the rest of the swans, he, apparently, knew about Sherlock’s situation, but, quite possibly, didn’t fully understand what was going to happen. It was for the best. At least, he wasn’t that small and new to their conditions and circumstances now. He’d be able to take care of himself, once Sherlock was gone.

     It took the older swan unforgivably long to notice John’s crossbow still in the boy’s hands, slightly heavier and bigger than someone of his size and age could find comfortable enough to wield. Obviously, the Prince had been upset enough to leave without his valued weapon. Sherlock hoped he’d at least got back to the castle safely.

 

     What followed were three days and two nights of absolute misery. Sherlock was despondent and inconsolable. Nothing could give him respite; he barely slept and couldn’t put his mind to anything at all. When nights came, his tired eyes kept wandering towards the entrance of the chapel, while his conscious mind berated him for not seeing that it was for the best if John forgot him. He tried to read one of the books the Prince had brought him, but couldn’t seem to focus and the letters were blurry in front of his eyes. He even caught himself caressing the leather cover lightly, - a sentimental gesture, coming from the unconscious knowledge that John’s warm hands had touched it before. John was warm and Sherlock felt so cold. It was a warm summer night, but he was shivering, sitting in front of a fire, wrapped up into his woollen, dark-grey cloak. It was more than obvious that he wasn’t going to enjoy the time he had been left with as a human and as a person, in spite of accepting his fate.

 

     During his third despondent night, his heart nearly stopped in his chest when he recognised the sound of familiar footsteps. He was afraid to turn, unsure if his sleep-deprived mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. And then John’s voice gave him a soft greeting, and Sherlock closed his eyes, overwhelmed by too many emotions at once.

‘I thought you’d never visit again’, he replied just as softly.

‘I’ve come to apologise’, the Prince said.

‘It’s fine. There’s nothing to apologise for. I overreacted’. Sherlock turned his head slightly, looking at the guest out of the corner of his eye. John’s posture and his body language, in general, indicated that he was ready to leave any moment and wasn’t planning to stay for long, otherwise, he would’ve made himself comfortable, as he usually had. Sherlock hated that he’d made him feel so unwelcome. In addition, from what he could see, Archie was in front of the entrance, admiring his very own new crossbow, lighter and smaller, obviously given to him in return for John’s forgotten one that was currently hanging against the man’s back on its leather strap. The crossbow had been promised to the boy, but he hadn’t been supposed to get it this soon, therefore, John was assuming that his visit tonight was his last one ever. The lump in Sherlock’s throat felt like he was about to start choking on it.

     John was silent for more than a few seconds, looking away pensively.

‘Is it too bold of me to hope that we can still be friends?’ he suddenly asked, turning his face back to Sherlock, his voice unwavering and steady, akin to his hands when he shot.

‘If you want us to’, Sherlock replied quietly, never meeting the stormy-blue eyes with his own. It had become a habit, but he wasn’t sure he could trust himself with looking John in the eye without breaking down completely.

‘Do **you**?’ John asked seriously. He was a person who wore his heart on his sleeve. He didn’t like glaringly withheld things or half-truths, and he expected straightforward answers. Sherlock wasn’t sure how to answer, though. Understandably, it was best for the both of them to just part their ways, once and for all, yet, his lips parted and he uttered a soft ‘ **Yes** ’. _‘Oh, God, yes’_ …

 

 


	6. Thirty Two Fouetté Turns And One Fall

     Time was running fast, as Sherlock tried his best to enjoy his and John’s friendship, at least as much as he was capable of enjoying anything at all at this point. John still knew something was very different and very wrong. Sometimes it was clear he wanted to try asking again, but refrained, knowing that, just as before, Sherlock wouldn’t answer. Perhaps, it was also due to the way the younger man always tensed if he deduced that the Prince wanted to start a serious conversation. Thankfully, it was discouraging enough for John to postpone the talk over and over again.

     Sherlock couldn’t help remembering John’s lips and hands on him often enough. Way too often. He both dreaded those thoughts and felt agonisingly nostalgic and needy, recalling every single detail and sensation and how amazing they had felt. ‘The forbidden kiss’, he secretly referred to it, rolling his eyes at his own dramatics. Still, he decided to add the memory to his other best memories of John. He was going to need them, so he collected them and sorted them out by categories. John was going to leave soon, in any case, and, after that, it would be just a matter of time before the spell turned Sherlock into a swan for the rest of his life and took those precious memories away; that is if Sherlock didn’t take his own life before it happened. He wasn’t sure yet how exactly those things were going to happen.

     He didn’t want to be bitter, but sometimes it was hard to help.

     They never discussed the upcoming ball, but it was easy to deduce when it was going to happen when John visited the night before the event. They didn’t talk about it.

‘Are you going to visit the night after tomorrow?’ Sherlock simply asked when John was leaving.

‘Of course’, the Prince promised with a small smile.

     It was fine. Just one night without John. While he visited most nights (almost every single night, as of late), some nights Sherlock spent without him. He convinced himself that tomorrow’s night wasn’t going to be any different.

 

     Moriarty, however, had his own plans. He hadn’t been visiting for quite some time, so his visit the next evening was unexpected.

‘Daddy is home! Did you miss me, my beauties?!’ he exclaimed cheerfully. As always, the usual silence from the swans didn’t bother him. ‘Today is an eventful and important day for all of us. You all should gather at the water’s line so that we can begin without delay’, the sorcerer announced. Tentative and suspicious, the flock started moving to the water’s line, and those who had been in the water to begin with, joined those on the shore. Everyone was tense, but no one dared to disobey. Sherlock didn’t move from his spot, just to be difficult, and Archie was at his side. ‘Sherley, love, it concerns you as well. In fact, it concerns you more than any of us, so don’t make us wait. It’s your show and you can’t miss it’, Moriarty insisted, his mood oddly forgiving and just as cheerful as before. Sherlock sighed to himself with irritation and did as he had been told, just for the sake of making Moriarty piss off. He hoped that, whatever it was on the sorcerer’s mind, was going to end soon, and he would leave them all alone again. It was a good enough reason to cooperate and make it happen sooner. Archie was close on his heels as the older swan moved closer to the flock.

     Humming under his nose and looking very excited, Moriarty approached the water, squatted down and elegantly touched the surface with his index finger before moving away a little to sit down onto a large stone behind the worried swans.

     At first, nothing was happening. The sun was slowly moving towards the horizon, but its orange glow suddenly disappeared from the lake’s surface. There were some odd, distorted images on it instead, but then the work of sorcery bloomed into a large moving picture of a huge, rather impressive hall, full of very well dressed nobles and royals. There were a few surprised or mesmerised gasps from the members of the flock. Sherlock ignored them. It took him a few more moments to conclude that it was John’s castle, a nice piece of property here, in a foreign duchy, a foreign country. Sherlock had read an illustrated book about it, the book that John had brought him once, so he could recognise the castle’s great hall, which was also its throne room. It looked like what Sherlock was currently seeing was actually happening in the castle at this exact moment, at least from what he could see behind the windows of the hall.

     And then he saw John. He was standing next to Queen Martha. Somehow, from what John had told him about her, this was exactly what Sherlock expected her to look and sound like. He brushed the feeling of uneasiness aside. Déjà vu was an almost habitual feeling by now, especially when it came to anything related to John, so there was no point in dwelling on it now.

     Things looked a little distorted on the edges, but, other than that, the picture was clear and he could hear all those people in the hall as well. Somehow, he could just concentrate his attention on any of them and hear what those particular people were talking about. They were having a small talk, joking, and they were, obviously, in good spirits, enjoying themselves, even when more serious topics were discussed. Sherlock couldn’t care less and his attention quickly shifted back to John, who, together with the regent, was greeting the guests in person, with some reluctance. It was unlikely they could notice it; Sherlock, however, could easily deduce it from several separate clues.

     What exactly Moriarty was doing and why he wanted the swans to see the ball was beyond Sherlock’s understanding. It couldn’t be good, though. Moriarty knew everything about John and Sherlock. Of course, he did. But what was he planning to do now? When the black swan turned his peripheral vision on him, the sorcerer noticed and made an impatient and petulant sound and a hand gesture that indicated that Sherlock should immediately turn back and keep watching, lest he missed something.

 

     John hadn’t quite expected this many people to arrive. He’d seen some of these people before, for the most part, during some political meetings. He knew that most of them had arrived two days earlier, but he had only seen a few of them in person. In addition, some of them had stopped at one of the duke’s castles nearby. The Bavarian duke was only happy to help with the accommodations of the guests of such importance. There were royals and those who accompanied them from Hungary, Russia, Spain, Naples and Poland (it had taken forever to greet each one of the foreign delegations). But there were also noblewomen from a larger number of countries. While they weren’t royalty, they were held in high regard and had every chance to be chosen. Theoretically, John could choose one of them. And, while it was preferable if he chose a princess, it wasn’t obligatory, and not many would wrinkle their noses if he decided to marry someone slightly less ‘important’ than a princess. Marrying someone from a ducal family, for example, was perfectly acceptable. There was no pressure from Queen Martha here. And, if any of their advisers had anything to say about it, they had already been shut up by her.

     So far, nobody looked particularly interesting to him. Oh, they **were** interesting and beautiful and, in other circumstances, John would’ve enjoyed the company of some of them quite a lot (too much, perhaps), but he had to choose someone who was going to become his wife, someone he was going to see most days and spend his life with, and, at the moment, he couldn’t even imagine marrying any of them; or marrying at all, for that matter. Maybe the fact that there were so many of them wasn’t that good, since he was a bit overwhelmed by their number alone. He almost wished he had told Queen Martha to simply make the choice for him and arrange a marriage that she thought was better for their country. But he knew she wanted **him** to choose and, preferably, fall in love with one of these women, as soon as possible; as if he was a boy who believed in such nonsense. He sighed to himself and kept watching, hoping that his lack of interest wasn’t glaringly obvious.

     Some women were too young for his liking, and, since most of the nobility and royalty married early, the percentage of the ‘too young’ women was high. One of them was fourteen! There was no way John would’ve even considered her as a potential wife. In fact, later, he was going to have a word about it with the Queen and find out how much she was involved here and what she had been thinking.

     There were older women and those who were nearly of the same age as John himself (most of them were widows, which, of course, wasn’t a problem, in John’s opinion). His eyes roamed among them, but there was no immediate attraction and gravitation on his part. Most were nice, beautiful and elegant, though, he couldn't deny it.

     Very pretty and, in many regards, rather interesting, in his opinion, Jeanette, from a ducal family of Spain, turned out to be a bit of a drama queen when she threw a small tantrum to her small retinue, for some reason. John’s Spanish wasn’t very good, but, from what he understood, nobody had told her there were going to be so many people to ‘compete’ with, including the royals, and for this, she’d made such a long way! Well, it looked like they had something in common, because he hadn’t imagined a crowd like this, either (though he would’ve probably known if he had enquired about the ball during the preparations, just once). Jeanette was also indignant, because someone who had packed her luggage had forgotten something she’d planned to take with her. Oh… She’d wanted to be wearing another dress tonight, tailored specifically for this event, but she had to wear ‘rags’, instead. He considered approaching and assuring her that she looked stunning in her beautiful sapphire-coloured gown. Some people nearby were a bit scandalised by her display of moodiness, whereas John found himself secretly enjoying the show. He wasn’t sure if it was making her notable and made it clear that she was just as unenthusiastic about the ball as he was, or if he shouldn’t even consider the possibility of marrying her, and, therefore, shouldn’t give her any special attention, tempting as it was. He had to admit that melodramatic people did have their charm. Sherlock, for example, could be quite melodramatic and outright sulky at times (no, John didn’t mean his sadness lately, that was different), but it had never made the Prince regret their friendship. The thought made his secret smile even wider and not so secret any longer.

     Soon, all of them were invited to the hall next to the one everyone was currently occupying, because the feast had been prepared and the guests were awaited. The table was lavish, the music nice, the entertainers funny or skilful (or both, depending on what their performances required), so people seemed to be having fun. Even John was a little more relaxed now.

 

     Meanwhile, as the night had fallen on the lands of Bavaria, midnight brought the usual change to the residents of the lake. Nobody dared to leave for their usual activities as humans, though, and not many wanted to, curious and still astounded by the product of Moriarty’s sorcery that kept demonstrating them the lives of people out there, where the swans couldn’t go. They, too, were perplexed as to why they were allowed to see Prince John’s ball.

     Sherlock tried his best not to be jealous, as he was watching John possibly choosing his future wife. The Prince didn’t seem very interested in anyone yet, but Sherlock did tense up when the blond man seemed curious about the moody Spanish noblewoman in a dark-blue gown. He didn’t currently feel very inspired to deduce all those women, but many deductions just came to him naturally, so he could tell which of them would make better queens and which of them were more suitable for John’s personality, though, admittedly, Sherlock was bad at everything that had anything to do with romantic relationships, so his deductions could be questioned, even though they were merely practical and could’ve been somewhat helpful. He started hoping, against all hopes, that John wouldn’t choose this time. It was possible, seeing that the Prince hadn’t yet displayed any sort of real interest in any of his guests. So, Sherlock couldn’t completely rule out that John would visit the next night and everything would continue as before, at least until the Prince would have to leave Bavaria. He didn’t want to deceive himself, but he couldn’t help hoping.

 

     When the feast was over, the guests were invited back into the great hall where Queen Martha was helped to the throne, so she could enjoy watching young people dancing. She insisted that John absolutely had to dance with someone, at least one dance. He rolled his eyes and asked one of the noblewomen in her thirties to dance with him; his choice was purely random.

     As soon as the dance was over, he thanked his shy and quiet dancing partner, who thanked him in return, and, with a goblet of wine, ascended the stairs to the inner balcony that covered nearly the entire perimeter of the hall. It was good to watch people dancing and pretend that he wasn’t really a part of the event. He let his mind wander away and simply revelled in the music.

‘Are you not enjoying yourself, my Prince?’ someone behind him asked, sometime later. Apparently, he’d been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed the person approaching him, which was a bit unusual for him as a seasoned soldier. He turned his face to the person in question. It was a good-looking, blonde woman, close to his age, wearing a beautiful white gown, decorated with white feathers. Most noblewomen or princesses here wouldn’t have approached him like this on their own, in front of everybody. He didn’t mind at all, though. He hadn’t seen the woman before. She must have arrived later than others.

‘I’m not good at being a prince, to be honest ’, he replied, leaning his elbows on the stone railing and smiling a little.

‘A good battle or a night out with friends would’ve been more preferable to you, wouldn’t it?’

‘True. I can tell my preferable activities are not a secret for anybody’, he smiled at the woman again.

‘I might have heard some stories about your military adventures before’, she smiled with mild playfulness. ‘And your friend Bill Murray is currently entertaining some of your guests with more of such stories’. It was true. When John’s eyes managed to locate his friend’s ginger head, he saw him surrounded by some of the guests, eagerly listening to him telling them something. While John himself wasn’t a bad storyteller, Bill had his own theatrical and enthusiastic manner, especially when he was tipsy; as he was now.

‘Oh, no… ’ John sighed and shook his head half-heartedly. ‘He does that sometimes. And he's trying too hard’, he chuckled.

‘And why not, especially when there's so much to tell?' the woman sighed wistfully. 'I’m Mary’, she introduced herself after a pause, just as he was about to ask her name. It was nice that she wasn’t expecting him to know her name by learning everyone’s names and tittles **before** the ball, which was a necessary politeness for a host. She wanted to be addressed to simply as 'Mary', and he liked it as well.

‘John’, he replied jokingly and they smiled at each other. ‘May I interest you in a dance, Mary?’ he asked without preamble or thinking twice. It was expected of him to spend time with the guests and he’d rather do it with someone of his choice, before people started whispering that the Prince didn’t like anybody and the ball was a waste of everyone’s time. It would've been a bit not good for him, as well as for Queen Martha and their kingdom.

‘It would do me honour, Prince John’, Mary answered.

     Together, they went down to join the other dancers and, as soon as the new song started playing, he took her hand in his and led her to the centre of the hall…

 

     As Sherlock watched John dancing with Mary, he found himself unconsciously pressing a hand against his chest, feeling some sort of phantom pains there, a pinch. He ignored it, however, and kept watching, even though it felt like he was watching from a distance, if it made sense, considering he was watching something that was taking place in a castle, situated kilometres away from the lake.

 

     Mary was incredible; clever, easy-going, interesting, witty, not too young. John really had a great time dancing with her and talking to her. Their banter had increasingly lifted his spirits and he had long forgotten about any discomfort in his leg or shoulder, allowing himself to relax and have a good time. For more than an hour it was just the two of them, barely noticing anyone else around. If it wasn’t polite to direct his sole attention to just one guest, he couldn’t make himself care at the moment.

     He hated that he was supposed to choose without really knowing a person well enough and spending more time with them. He was too old for such spontaneous decisions, more typical of youths. He wouldn’t have minded to spend more time with Mary and make a well thought-out decision. He **was** allowed to postpone his choice a little, but what was the point if, in any case, he would have to choose from women who were currently present? Out of all of them, Mary was the only one who appeared to be a kindred spirit, someone whom he already liked and found interesting in so many ways. And, if he announced his choice now, others wouldn’t linger here for long, or, rather, he wouldn’t have to spend much time with them for a few more days, pretending to be in the process of making up his mind. If he made his choice tonight and voiced it, people would stay for about a week as guests, but nobody would be trying to fight for his attention or expect anything special from him, personally. He’d even be able to spend more time with Sherlock, instead of entertaining the guests days on end and becoming too exhausted by nights. He’d have enough time to build or strengthen good relations with all of these people once he’s king. They weren’t enemies to begin with.

     Yes, it was best to get it over with. Once another song ended, he gestured for the musicians to stop playing before he approached the Queen’s throne. She looked excited, trying and failing to keep her face straight. He’d attracted a lot of attention by now, and he did, in fact, manage to look composed.

‘Your Majesty, Queen Martha’, he started, bowing to the regent. ‘I’ve made my choice, as was expected of me’.

‘Oh, my boy, it’s wonderful!’ she chirped quietly so that as few people as possible could hear how excited she was. She got up with ease, uncharacteristically not even paying attention to her hip.

‘Mary’, John called the blond woman, encouraging her to come closer. She looked uncertain and surprised, approaching him, nonetheless.

‘John, are you sure? All these princesses… Yet, you want to choose me, a woman from a nearly broke family?’ she whispered, looking humbled by her rank.

‘It doesn’t matter to me. And, yes, I do’, he promised quietly.

‘But they are royals. I thought the other women, including myself, were mostly just for show, but had no real chances’.

‘Well, that’s too bad then for those who have planned it that way, because I’m allowed to choose you. If this is what you want as well, of course’, he quickly added.

‘Believe me, my willingness isn’t an issue here’, she said, looking him in the eye sincerely. It wasn’t very good being seen whispering to each other like this when he was supposed to be making an announcement. Mary seemed unsure of his intentions and he really wanted to assure her. Things weren’t going very smoothly and they had already broken a lot of protocols, of course.

‘You’ve got nothing to worry about’, he finally said, loud enough for others to hear. ‘I promise to love and respect you. I swear to do my best to make you happy. You have my word, you shall not be looked down at. Mary Morstan, will you marry me?’

     There were small gasps from the guests, some excited, other disappointed.

     Mary said ‘yes’.

 

     Sherlock was dry heaving in distress, no longer capable of watching and listening. He’d known this would happen, but it hadn’t made it any less painful and devastating. He hadn’t expected it to happen this soon either, believing that John would choose someone to court, someone to propose in a few months, perhaps. But him proposing today and promising his love and life was not something Sherlock had been even remotely prepared for.

     It meant that this was his last night. This… hadn’t been expected at all… For a few minutes he couldn’t see or hear anything, his mind was numb, but then, ignoring the eyes, full of shock and sympathy, he got up heavily from where he had been sitting at the water, turned around and started wandering away from the lake, away from all of this. There was nothing that could be done now. He hadn’t even imagined that the night before had been the last one he had spent with John. He would not be able to say good bye. He could physically feel his time running out now.

     He stopped in the forest, feeling a little claustrophobic even here. He didn’t want to start having another panic attack, so he was trying to control his breathing as best as he could. Somebody approached him from behind, making him flinch. It was Moriarty.

‘Leave me!’ Sherlock lashed out helplessly.

‘You weren’t expecting a good ending anyway, were you?’ the sorcerer scoffed, ignoring the futile outburst. He pressed himself against a tree, folding his arms on his chest. ‘Do you not know that the original version ends with the Prince and the Swan Queen committing suicide together, because the vow binds the Prince to the liar he promised his heart to? Their suicide causes the power of the spell to backfire and it kills the evil sorcerer himself; his own power. There’s another version, where the sorcerer kills the Prince, and the Swan Queen never turns into a human again, left to mourn her lover, as a swan. Oh, there was another one, where the Prince drags the sorcerer into the lake, where they both die. Too bad the sacrifice doesn’t help the swan one bit. But I think we know how this fairy tale ends for **you** ’, Moriarty murmured with a smirk. Sherlock’s heart was about to jump out of his chest at what he was hearing. ‘The Prince marries the liar and the sad swan has got needle tracks hidden underneath his feathers!’ he cackled. Sherlock was starting to hyperventilate, not sure if he had ever been more terrified of Moriarty. ‘Does something like… “Mind Palace” sound familiar to you?’ the sorcerer continued, ignoring Sherlock’s sorry state. He was circling him now, slowly and menacingly. ‘No? Doesn’t ring any bells at all? Oh, but it does, doesn’t it? But you’ve gone far too deep this time, Sherley! Where’s my clever boy?! There isn’t much fun when you’re so confused! Dull! Boring!’ he spat. Sherlock pressed his fingertips against his temples hard and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense of Moriarty’s words. He knew they **did** make sense. Every time he was about to find answers, he was being pulled back away from them somehow. He was scared and panicked. Moriarty’s words kept ringing in his head over and over again.

 

     John needed a moment on his own, so he went up to the balcony once more, leaving Mary with Queen Martha for a talk they obviously needed to have, joined by the Queen’s best friend Margaret. They needed to discuss what was going to happen now that John had proposed and Mary had accepted.

     It was hard to believe, but he was getting married and crowned soon. He was going to have to try to be a responsible King and husband, even if not everything about it sat well with him.

     For the second time during this night he was approached by someone on this balcony. This time it was a man and John had noticed him approaching much sooner than he’d noticed Mary, despite being absorbed in his thoughts again. The man stopped next to him and put his hands on the railing. He looked tired and morose. John was about to ask if he was all right, but the man started talking before he had a chance to.

 ‘So you have just given your heart to Mary Morstan’, the Englishman sighed sombrely. It wasn’t a question. John frowned a little. Why would anyone meddle with his affairs like this? But, perhaps, the man was an interested party and had a relative who had come here in hopes of becoming the future queen of John’s country. It wouldn’t do to waste their time if they still had some empty hopes of changing the situation. He always preferred honesty to polite lies. At least, the man was in no way intimidated by the Prince's rank, though the stranger could very well be a royal person himself. To John he appeared to be more royal than John himself would ever be.

‘I have. To whom do I owe the pleasure?’ he enquired. The man closed his eyes for a few moments, lowered his head and nodded in resignation and acceptance. It was confusing.

‘Then, I’m afraid, there’s no hope for my brother now’, he said, instead of answering the question. He kept looking forward, focusing on nothing in particular. ‘Are you aware of the fact that most swans mate for life, Prince John?’ he then asked, unexpectedly. John was immediately startled. It didn’t take long to put two and two together, as well as to realise that something terrible had happened to his secret friend.

‘Mycroft Holmes?’ he asked, looking at the man with wide, worried eyes.

‘My brother has developed certain feelings for you, Your Majesty. The spell that holds him prisoner to Moriarty could have been broken by mutual feelings and a simple, sentimental oath or, at least, a sincere promise of love that implies spending lives together. However, the promise has already been given to another person, and thus… Nothing can be done for Sherlock now’, Mycroft finished. It took John a long minute to comprehend and make sense of the words. He was appalled by the realisation of what was going on, even though he knew he didn’t know the whole truth yet.

‘Why… Why didn’t you appear sooner?!’ he demanded, too shocked to be properly angry.

‘My role here is small and I don’t have much influence. You see, Doctor Watson, **the list** is incomplete’, Mycroft said pointedly, looking John in the eye for the first time since the beginning of their talk. And he was looking intensely, expectantly, as if these words were the key to everything. John had no time for puzzles and vague explanations, so he ran down the stairs, accidentally stumbling onto Mike, who probably wanted to talk to him in person and congratulate him on his betrothal.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost’, his friend chuckled, and then immediately became concerned, upon taking a good look at John. As the Prince was moving fast to the exit, people were perplexed, seeing him in such a state. He had no time for explanations (and even if he did, he wouldn’t have been able to give any) or apologies. He was making a scene, he knew it, but he couldn’t stay calm now.

‘John! John, what’s going on?’ Bill called after him.

‘John, dear…’ Queen Martha was just in his way and wanted to say something, but her smile disappeared as soon as she saw his face.

‘I’ve doomed him…’ John murmured.

‘Whom?’ she asked, seriously worried now.

‘I need to go’. John had no time to find Mary to excuse himself either, which was why he had no idea that she was no longer in this hall.

     Making sure he wasn't followed by his concerned friends or guards, he made it to the stables. Stable boys weren’t there at such a late hour, so John had to tack up his favourite dapple-grey mare without any help. Not that it was in any way new or unusual. He couldn’t remember ever doing it so quickly, though. He also hadn’t forgotten to take his crossbow and a quiver full of bolts with him. As soon as he was done, he mounted the horse and urged her on, as fast as she could go. All he could think of was that Sherlock was in grave danger and John could lose him forever.

 

* * *

 

     John sighed in relief when the taxi had finally stopped at his old flat after he’d got Mary, together with their luggage, home. Their trip was finally over, two days earlier than expected, due to their mutual wish to go home, and he couldn’t wait to see Sherlock and make sure he was fine. He’d been trying to ring him for a while now, but Sherlock hadn’t been answering his mobile, neither calls, nor texts. If he was busy conducting one of his experiments, it wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t like there was much else he could do, as he wasn’t allowed to leave the flat, at least until they got any new clues about Moriarty or rather a person or people that were carrying on with the psychopath’s ideas. So far, they had nothing to work with, so the genius must be bored out of his mind.

     He had a set of keys of his own again (thanks to Mycroft), so he decided to enter without bothering Mrs Hudson. He’d greet her later, as soon as he checked on Sherlock. The house was watched by Mycroft’s agents, so, if anything had happened, John would’ve been informed. For that reason, he wasn’t very worried now, he just wanted to be sure.

     All he could hear was music, as he entered his old flat, immediately feeling nostalgic, but dismissing the feeling for now. Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake was pouring out of the loudspeakers of an, apparently new, micro music system.

     However, what his eyes saw next, on the coffee table, made his heart fall. A spoon, an extinguished tea light, a small, nearly empty package of citric acid powder (to dissolve heroin, of course)… That was enough to realise what was going on. Immediately after that, his eyes found Sherlock lying on the sofa, looking both ethereal and simply deathly pale, and, most likely, unconscious. John was next to him in a moment, trying to shake him awake, which didn’t work. Only being this close, he noticed a glass syringe between Sherlock’s arm and the back of the sofa. The sleeve of his dressing gown was still rolled up and a rubber tourniquet was loose halfway around the man’s upper arm.

     Wasting no time, John started checking Sherlock’s vital signs. His skin was cold and clammy, his lips and fingernails were bluish. He had respiratory depression, low heart rate, weak pulse, extremely small pupils, slight muscle spasms (not very frequent or notable, but still there). A classical picture of an opioid overdose one could diagnose even without medical equipment. John tried rubbing Sherlock’s sternum and pinching his ear, but no reaction followed; he was deeply unconscious and didn’t react to any attempts to wake him up.

     On the plane Sherlock had ‘gone over’, as junkies referred to non-fatal overdoses, which didn’t mean it hadn’t been dangerous. John had been able to help him on his own though. But this… This was worse. He immediately called ‘999’. On the phone, he decided not to mention that he was a doctor, just in case someone imagined that things were, in any way, under control. As soon as he rang off, he put his unconscious friend into the recovery position after checking his dry mouth to make sure there was no vomit or tongue dropped to the back of his mouth. He also quickly made sure the doors were unlocked for when the ambulance arrived.

     It was only then that he noticed a small, neat stack of papers on the table. Sherlock’s lists for Mycroft… He proceeded to checking them at once. They all had dates, and John closed his eyes for a few moments, suddenly feeling too old and too tired. Sherlock had been using for days on end, several times per day. He was on a fucking drug binge for at least a week and a half! The list with the current date was somehow wrong. It said that Sherlock had taken a mix of heroin and cocaine, but the doses weren’t enough for Sherlock to overdose, even though it would’ve been too much for anyone who hadn’t been using as much as Sherlock normally did, according to these notes and the one John had seen on the plane. So the list, apparently, wasn’t complete for this particular day, and Sherlock had taken something else afterwards, likely heroin, considering his current symptoms and the drugs listed for the previous days.

 ‘You’re an idiot… A fucking idiot! A complete, fucking pillock!’ John sobbed heartbrokenly, without tears, both furious and devastated. He buried his head in his hands. No… No… He would have time to break down later, and to beat the git’s arse, too, but now he had to calm down and go back to being a doctor Sherlock desperately needed at the moment.

     He sat down on the floor at the sofa and touched his friend’s cold, smooth and impossibly pale face after checking his vital signs again, which he would have to continue doing as often as he could, until the help arrived. _‘You have to live, Sherlock. You have to survive this, you insane fool…’_ The traitorous voice on the back of his mind told something entirely different, though: _‘So what if he survives now? He’ll do it again, and again, and again. He’ll keep using and lying, making empty promises and breaking your heart. He cannot be trusted even to spend a few days on his own in a thoroughly searched flat! You may very well start carrying naloxone, benzodiazepines and activated charcoal in your pockets, depending on what he’s going to overdose on next time!’_ John hushed his angry thoughts. It really wasn’t the best time.

 

* * *

 

 

    This, all of this, wasn’t real, was it? He didn’t know how, but this world was a fairy tale he was stuck in, except he was doomed, fairy tale or not. Mind Palace… Of course, he was in his Mind Palace, trapped and living another life. How was he supposed to come back? Was it even possible now? Mycroft had told him it was his own fault, but Sherlock still failed to understand what exactly he had meant. As Moriarty had told him, he was too deep, so he had no access to the data he required to comprehend what was really happening and why.

‘Hello, Sherlock’, he suddenly heard a female voice and froze. He knew this voice. Mary. He turned around just to see her, still in her white gown with white feathers. Only now she was holding a crossbow, more compact than John’s and with only one bolt already loaded into it. She was aiming at him. He lifted his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender, but he knew she would shoot and there was no escape. _‘No, Mrs Watson, you won’t’_. She would, though. She already had once, hadn’t she? He couldn’t remember the circumstances, but he knew. Unless, those were false memories, if one could characterise those incoherent scraps as memories.

‘I’m sorry, Sherlock. I truly am’, she said with a sigh of regret.

‘You always are… Aren’t you?’ he almost whispered and closed his eyes, knowing what was going to follow. The bolt tore through his chest, and the pain exploded like white-hot splatters of molten metal and sharp glass shards. What followed was his endless fall backwards. No thoughts, no sounds. Just the fall, and the pain, and the tilting world, until he could only see tops of the enormously high trees and the night sky above them. And then, there was also Mary’s face, once he was on his back, defeated. She squatted down next to him. The crossbow was carelessly in her hand, against her knee and she was holding it as if it was a toy. He was shaking. He wanted to scream, but was unable to; in fact, he could barely breath and each laboured inhale and exhale only made the indescribable pain worse.

‘I **am** sorry, Sherlock. You always knew you were bound to lose. You always knew John had made his choice, the right choice. Why do you keep fighting it, even though you know it? Let him live his own life. You’re not even the white swan in this fairy tale. You do understand what it means, don’t you?’ she asked, as if talking to a slow-witted child, softly. Of course, he knew what she meant. It meant that **he** was the intruder, that **he** was the one who was unwanted; a third wheel. Despite the absolute agony, her words still managed to hurt. She stood up, apparently ready to leave and let him die in peace now. He wasn’t even supposed to be still alive with a wound like this. Perhaps, it was just a matter of time before he drew his last, painful breath. He was rapidly losing consciousness and everything was becoming out-of-focus.

‘You don’t tell him. Sherlock?’ Mary said softly, pronouncing his name almost as if she was singing a lullaby, and he could see her shaking her head repeatedly, however, he was no longer sure he wasn’t imagining it. His consciousness was slipping away, but the agony was still chocking him, not really becoming any duller. He knew he was dying now. There was no point in denying it. This was his end. But he didn’t want to die alone. He needed John more than he’d ever needed him before. Just one last time. Please. _Please…_

     He was on the wedding again, playing the song he had composed for John and Mary; the one he had grown to hate. They were dancing, as he was performing it, and they weren’t noticing that the music he was playing was becoming increasingly more ominous, dark, desperate and heavily out of tune. It was deafening and it was sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine, making him shudder and clench his teeth together, as he was moving the bow over the strings rather furiously now. The newlyweds and their guests were too happy to notice. The music kept playing, even as he threw his violin against the floor, shattering it. The music kept playing, even as he buried his head in his hands, screaming, and screaming, and screaming, but not hearing himself; just the ominous song that John and Mary kept dancing to.

     Next, after a blackout, he found himself in a hazy dream, where he was drowning in freezing waters, no longer hearing the wedding song, even though there still was ringing in his ears and the pieces of his shattered violin were next to him in the water, drowning together with him. He could barely feel cold or pain any more, as his body was already numb. He was incapable of breathing or going back on the surface, his arms and legs were just moving helplessly, weakly and way too slowly for the motions to be in any way productive, so he kept going down. There was Mary’s face above the water watching him, looking down on him ‘You don’t tell John’, he somehow managed to hear her telling him before she disappeared. The water gradually started whirling Sherlock’s body like a partner in a dance, slowly, and he allowed the depth to consume him.

 

* * *

 

 

     John was startled to discover that Sherlock was no longer breathing and there was no pulse or any other signs of life he could find now. It couldn’t have been for more than a few seconds, though, since John’s fingertips barely left the pulse point on his friend’s wrist. He quickly checked the one on the pale neck, then pressed his ear against the still chest. There was nothing. Only a couple of minutes before that, John had started to suspect that the ambulance wasn’t going to make it in time. He hated being right about it. It had been six minutes after he had rung the emergency service. They were supposed to arrive any moment now, but Sherlock didn’t have time. John was his only hope to survive. The army doctor was like well-oiled machine when it came to saving lives.

     Easily, as if Sherlock weighed very little, John lifted him off the sofa and carefully, yet quickly, put him on the floor on his back. Thirty steady and rhythmical chest compressions later, the doctor tilted Sherlock’s head back, pinched his nose and gave two deep and steady rescue breaths after sealing his mouth over his friend’s parted, cold and bluish, lips. The air went in freely and lifted the ribcage from the inside. Good. The action was followed by thirty more chest compressions. _‘Where’s that bloody ambulance?!’_. He wished he at least had any medical equipment that would’ve allowed him to do more. He desperately wanted to do more.

     Sherlock couldn’t die like this. He couldn’t. It was absolutely impossible. The thought that life had permanently abandoned this body, that it was just a corpse, a cold, empty corpse, as alive as a mannequin, was mind-numbing, no matter how many times John had seen such things before. The experience was never getting old when it came to people he knew in person. A body, an empty, lifeless vessel, void of all the thoughts, personality and emotions that had once occupied it; with all its, once normal and effortless, biological processes no longer taking place. And even the body, not always entirely recognisable, as death always changed some of its features almost immediately, was meant to be taken away, subjected to decomposition that erased the last traces of a human being, once full of life and, perhaps, brilliance... like Sherlock.

     Alas, there was a good chance the insane genius had run out of miracles. John, however, wasn’t about to give up on him.

     It was real this time, not like at St Bart’s’ (John would’ve been a liar if he said he was no longer angry about it). It was more like back when Mary had shot Sherlock, only then John had felt significantly more helpless. While there was neither medical equipment at hand, nor necessary medications now, just like back then, he could actually do something this time; he was in charge and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, let Sherlock go.

     He kept filling his friend’s lungs with air and compressing his chest in hopes to restart the heart, as he had been trained to, as he had done before; not always successfully, because things didn’t always depend on a doctor, regardless of how skilful and experienced they were.

     Whilst performing rescue breaths, he was pressing his fingers against the pulse point on Sherlock’s neck to avoid interrupting the whole process by doing it at any other time. At first, there was nothing at all, but then he managed to find a very weak, irregular pulse that in no way indicated that the heartbeat had been restored. It was better than nothing, though. Something insignificant was always better than nothing at all in cases like this. He continued as before: two rescue breaths, thirty chest compressions, two rescue breaths, thirty chest compressions… On more than a few occasions, he’d had to play by ear and improvise when a patient’s life depended on him, but this particular process had to be performed strictly according to rules.  

 

‘Come on, Sherlock… You have to come back. Come back to me’.

 

* * *

 

 

     Through the multi-layered veil of haze and nothingness, he imagined hearing John’s voice. From an old, lingering memory, perhaps. His John… No, not his. Never his.

     It appeared, in any world John and Mary belonged to each other. Did a world where John and Sherlock could be together even exist? Apparently, not. There were always John and Mary; and stupid, stupid Sherlock…

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'There were royals and those who accompanied them from Hungary, Russia, Spain, Naples and Poland...' In this particular order dancers usually perform in the ballet when the royal guests are presented to the Prince. 
> 
> And, yes, I included Jeanette, John's ex girlfriend, and Margaret, Mrs Hudson's friend from the past, who cried about the end of an era, because Mrs Hudson was getting married, which, according to her, destroyed their friendship.
> 
> I apologise for the delay. I hope you've enjoyed the chapter (unless you aren't this much into pain). Hopefully, it isn't too rushed.
> 
> I also want you to know that I've come to a decision to write **two** separate and very different endings for this story. Which is why the next chapter should be planned very carefully and it should end in its right time and properly (imagine stopping on a crossroads and facing two different directions), so I can later upload the endings as separate chapters each. It may take a while to write, but I'll try my best not to keep you waiting for too long, even though my job is robbing me of my time and energy to write.  
>  I'm excited about the fact that I no longer have any doubts where the whole thing is going and that I don't have to choose between two ideas. I absolutely enjoy writing this story and I'd hate to lose the potential it has, in my opinion (yes, I know it's not a modest thing to say at all ;) ). Just one ending no longer seems enough to me. You can very well blame the ballet!


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